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| THE  READER'S  LIBRARY 

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Set  up.  Printed  and  Bound  at  the 
KINGSPORT  PRESS 
Kingsport  Tennessee 
United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


I >> 

' S' 

J 

■ 

Cn  AFTER  PAGB 

I.  Guardian  and  Ward 1 

II.  Father  and  Son 9 

III.  Death  at  Redstone  Hall 19 

IV.  The  Bridal  Day 29 

V.  The  Alarm 39 

VI.  Marian 45 

VII.  Isabel  Huntington 53 

VIII.  Frederic  and  Alice 65 

IX.  The  Yankee  Peddler 73 

X.  Plans 35 

XI.  The  Effect 91 

XII.  The  House  on  the  River 103 

XIII.  The  Fever 109 

XIV.  The  Search 127 

XV.  Home  Again 133 

XVI.  The  Governess 141 

XVII.  Will  Gordon  . 147 

XVIII.  Will’s  Wooing 155 

XIX.  The  Birthday 163 

XX.  Frederic  and  Alice  Visit  Marian’s  Old 

Home 179 

XXI.  The  Meeting 135 

XXII.  Life  at  Riverside 193 

XXIII.  Redstone  Hall 201 

XXIV.  Telling  Frederic 222 

XXV.  “The  Lost  One  Has  Returned”  ....  233 

XXVI.  Ben 239 


MARIAN  GREY 


CHAPTER  I 

GUARDIAN  AND  WARD 

The  night  was  dark  and  the  clouds  black  and  heavy  which 
hung  over  Redstone  Hall,  whose  massive  walls  loomed  up 
through  the  darkness  like  some  huge  sentinel  keeping  guard 
over  the  spacious  grounds  by  which  it  was  surrounded.  With- 
in the  house  all  was  still,  and  without  there  was  no  sound  to 
break  the  midnight  silence,  save  the  sighing  of  the  autumnal 
wind  through  the  cedar  trees  or  the  roar  of  the  river,  which, 
swollen  by  the  recent  heavy  rains,  went  rushing  on  to  meet  its 
twin  sister  at  a point  well  known  in  Kentucky,  where  our  story 
opens,  as  “The  Forks  of  the  Elkhorn.”  From  one  of  the  lower 
windows  a single  light  was  shining,  and  its  dim  rays  fell  upon 
the  face  of  a white-haired  man  who  moaned  uneasily  in  his 
sleep,  as  if  pursued  by  some  tormenting  fear.  At  last,  as  the 
old-fashioned  clock  struck  the  hour  of  twelve,  he  awoke,  and 
glancing  nervously  toward  the  corner,  whence  the  sound  pro- 
ceeded, he  whispered: 

“Have  you  come  again,  Ralph  Lindsey,  to  tell  me  of  my 
sin?” 

“What  is  it,  Mr.  Raymond?  Did  you  call?”  and  a young 
girl  glided  to  the  bedside  of  the  old  man,  who,  taking  her  hand 
in  his,  the  better  to  assure  himself  of  her  presence,  said: 
“Marian,  is  there  nothing  in  that  corner  yonder — nothing  with 
silvery  hair  ?” 

“Nothing,”  answered  Marian,  “nothing  but  the  lamp  light 
shining  on  the  face  of  the  old  clock.  Did  you  think  there  was 
someone  here?” 

“Yes — no — Marian.  Do  you  believe  the  dead  can  come  back 
to  us  again — when  we  have  done  them  a wrong — the  dead  who 
are  buried  in  the  sea,  I mean  ?” 

Marian  shuddered  involuntarily,  and  cast  a timid  look  to- 


2 


MARIAN  GREY 


ward  the  shadowy  corner,  then,  conquering  her  weakness,  she 
answered : 

“No,  the  dead  cannot  come  back.  But  why  do  you  talk  so 
strangely  tonight  ?” 

The  old  man  hesitated  a moment  ere  he  replied : 

“The  time  has  come  for  me  to  speak,  so  that  your  father  can 
rest  in  peace.  He  has  been  with  me  more  than  once  in  this 
very  room,  and  tonight  I fancied  he  was  here  again,  asking 
why  I had  dealt  so  falsely  with  his  child.” 

“Falsely !”  cried  Marian,  kissing  tenderly  the  hand  of  the 
only  parent  she  had  ever  known.  “Not  falsely,  I am  sure,  for 
you  have  been  most  kind  to  me.” 

“And  yet,  Marian,”  he  said,  “I  have  done  you  a wrong — a 
wrong  which  has  eaten  into  my  very  soul  and  worn  my  life 
away.  I did  not  intend  to  speak  of  it  tonight,  but  something, 
I know  not  what,  prompts  me  to  do  so,  and  you  must  listen. 
On  that  night  when  your  father  died,  and  when  all  in  the  ship, 
save  ourselves  and  the  watch,  were  asleep,  I laid  my  hand  on 
his  forehead  and  swore  to  be  faithful  to  my  trust.  Do  you 
hear,  Marian? — faithful  to  my  trust.  You  don’t  know  what 
that  meant,  but  I know,  and  Fve  broken  my  word — broken 
my  oath  to  the  dying — and  from  that  grave  in  the  ocean  he 
comes  to  me  sometimes,  and  with  the  same  look  upon  his  face 
which  it  wore  that  summer  afternoon  when  we  laid  him  in  the 
sea,  he  asks  me  why  justice  has  not  been  done  to  you.  Wait, 
Marian,  until  I have  finished,”  he  continued,  as  he  saw  her 
about  to  speak ; “I  know  I have  not  long  to  live,  and  I would 
make  amends;  but,  Marian,  I would  rather— oh,  so  much 
rather,  you  should  not  know  the  truth  until  I’m  dead.  You 
will  forgive  me  then  more  readily,  won't  you,  Marian  ? Prom- 
ise me  you  will  forgive  the  poor  old  man  who  has  loved  you  so 
much — loved  you,  if  possible,  better  than  he  loved  his  only 
son.” 

He  paused  for  her  reply,  and,  half  bewildered,  Marian  an-, 
swered : 

“I  don’t  know  what  you  mean,  but  if,  as  you  say,  a wrong 
has  been  done,  no  matter  how  great  that  wrong  may  be,  it  is 
freely  forgiven  for  the  sake  of  what  you’ve  been  to  me.” 

The  sick  man  wound  his  arm  lovingly  around  her,  and, 
bringing  her  nearer  to  him,  he  said: 

“Bless,  you,  Marian — bless  you  for  that.  It  makes  my 
death  bed  easier.  I will  leave  it  in  writing — my  confession.  I 
cannot  tell  it  now,  for  I could  not  bear  to  see  upon  your  face 
that  you  despised  me.  You  wrote  to  Frederic,  did  you,  and 
told  him  to  come  quickly?” 


MARIAN  GREY 


3 


"Yes,”  returned  Marian,  "I  said  you  were  very  sick  and 
wished  to  see  him  at  once.” 

For  a moment  there  was  silence  in  the  room;  then,  re- 
moving his  arm  from  the  neck  of  the  young  girl,  the  old  man 
raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and,  looking  her  steadily  in  the 
face,  said: 

"Marian,  could  you  love  my  son  Frederic?” 

The  question  was  a strange  one,  but  Marian  Lindsey  was 
accustomed  to  strange  modes  of  speech  in  her  guardian,  and 
with  a slightly  heightened  color  she  answered  quietly: 

"I  do  love  him  as  a brother — ” 

"Yes,  but  I would  have  you  love  him  as  something  nearer,” 
returned  her  guardian.  "Ever  since  I took  you  for  my  child 
it  has  been  the  cherished  object  of  my  life  that  you  should  be 
his  wife.” 

There  was  a nervous  start  and  an  increase  of  color  in 
Marian’s  face,  for  the  idea,  though  not  altogether  disagreeable, 
was  a new  one  to  her,  but  she  made  no  reply,  and  her  guardian 
continued : 

"I  am  selfish  in  this  wish,  though  not  wholly  so.  I know 
you  could  be  happy  with  him,  and  in  no  other  way  can  my 
good  name  be  saved  from  disgrace.  Promise  me,  Marian,  that 
you  will  be  his  wife  very  soon  after  I am  dead,  and  before  all 
Kentucky  is  talking  of  my  sin.  You  are  not  too  young.  You 
will  be  sixteen  in  a few  months,  and  many  marry  as  early  as 
that.” 

"Does  he  wish  it?”  asked  Marian  timidly.  Her  guardian 
replied : 

"He  has  known  you  but  little  of  late,  but  when  he  sees  you 
here  at  home  and  learns  how  gentle  and  good  you  are,  he  can- 
not help  loving  you  as  you  deserve.” 

"Yes,  he  can,”  answered  Marian  with  childish  simplicity. 
"No  man  as  handsome  as  Frederic  ever  loved  a girl  with  an 
ugly  face,  and  I heard  him  tell  Will  Gordon,  when  they  spent 
a vacation  here,  that  I was  a nice  little  girl,  but  altogether  too 
freckled,  too  red-headed  and  scrawny,  ever  to  make  a hand- 
some woman,”  and  Marian’s  voice  trembled  slightly  as  she  re- 
called a speech  which  had  wrung  from  her  many  tears. 

To  this  remark  Col.  Raymond  made  no  reply,  for  he,  too, 
had  cause  to  doubt  Frederic’s  willingness  to  marry  a girl  who 
boasted  so  few  personal  charms  as  did  Marian  Lindsey  then. 
Rumors,  too,  he  had  heard,  of  a peerlessly  beautiful  creature, 
with  raven  hair  and  eyes  of  deepest  black,  who  at  the  North 
kep!  his  son  a captive  to  her  will.  But  this  could  not  be; 
Frederic  must  marry  Marian,  for  in  no  other  way  could  the 


MARIAN  GREY 


name  of  Raymond  be  saved  from  disgrace,  or  the  vast  posses- 
sions he  called  his  own  be  kept  in  the  family. 

He  was  about  to  speak  again  when  a heavy  tread  in  the  hall 
announced  the  approach  of  someone,  and  a moment  later  Aunt 
Dinah,  the  housekeeper,  appeared. 

She  had  “come  to  sit  up  with  marster,”  she  said,  “and  let 
Miss  Marian  go  to  bed,  where  children  like  her  ought  to  be.” 

Thirteen  years  before  our  story  opens,  Marian  had  em- 
barked with  her  father  on  board  a ship  which  sailed  from 
Liverpool  to  New  York.  Of  that  father  she  remembered  little 
save  that  he  was  very  poor  and  that  he  talked  of  his  poverty 
as  if  it  was  something  of  which  he  was  proud.  Pleasant 
memoi  ies,  though,  she  had  of  an  American  gentleman  who  used 
often  to  take  her  on  his  lap  and  tell  her  of  the  land  to  which 
she  was  going;  and  when  one  day  her  father  laid  down  in  his 
berth,  and  the  fever  was  raging,  she  remembered  how  the 
kind  man  had  cared  for  him,  holding  his  aching  head  and 
watching  by  him  till  he  died;  then,  when  it  was  all  over,  he 
had  taken  her  again  upon  his  knee  and  told  her  she  was  to  be 
his  little  girl  now,  and  he  bade  her  call  him  father,  telling  her 
how  her  own  dead  parent  had  asked  him  to  care  for  her,  who 
in  all  the  wide  world  had  no  near  relative.  Something,  too, 
she  remembered  about  an  old  coarse  bag,  which  had  troubled 
her  new  father  very  much,  and  which  he  had  finally  put  in  the 
bottom  of  his  trunk,  throwing  overboard  a few  articles  of 
clothing  to  make  room  for  it.  The  voyage  was  long  and; 
stormy,  but  they  reached  New  York  at  last,  and  he  took  her' 
to  his  home— not  Redstone  Hall,  but  an  humble  farmhouse 
on  the  Hudson,  where  he  had  always  lived.  Frederic  was  a 
boy  then — a dark-haired,  handsome  boy  of  eleven,  and  even 
now  she  shuddered  as  she  remembered  how  he  used  to  tease 
and  worry  her.  Still,  he  liked  her,  she  was  sure,  and  the  first, 
real  grief  she  remembered  was  on  that  rainy  day  when,  with 
an  extra  pull  at  her  long  curls,  he  bade  her  good-bye  and; 
went  off  to  a distant  boarding  school. 

Col.  Raymond,  her  guardian,  was  growing  rich,  and  people! 
said  he  must  have  entered  into  some  fortunate  speculation: 
while  abroad,  for,  since  his  return,  prosperity  had  attended 
every  movement;  and  when,  six  months  after  Frederic’s  de- 
parture, he  went  to  Kentucky  and  purchased  Redstone  Hall, 
then  a rather  dilapidated  building,  Mrs.  Burt,  his  house- 
keeper, had  wondered  where  all  his  money  came  from,  when 
he  used  to  be  so  poor.  They  had  moved  to  Kentucky  when 
Marian  was  five  and  a half  years  old,  and  now,  after  ten  years’ 
improvement,  there  was  not  in  the  whole  county  so  beautiful  a 


MARIAN  GREY 


5 


spot  as  Redstone  Hall,  with  its  terraced  grounds,  its  graveled 
walks,  its  plots  of  grass,  its  grand  old  trees,  its  creeping  vines, 
its  flowering  shrubs,  and  handsome  parks  in  the  rear.  And  this 
was  Marian’s  home;  here  she  had  lived  a rather  secluded  life, 
for  only  when  Frederic  was  with  them  did  they  see  much 
company,  and  all  the  knowledge  she  had  of  the  world  was  what 
she  gleaned  from  books  or  learned  from  the  negress,  Dinah, 
who,  “having  lived  with  the  very  first  families,”  frequently 
entertained  her  young  mistress  with  stories  of  “the  quality” 
and  the  dinner  parties  at  which  her  presence  was  once  so  in- 
dispensable. And  Marian,  listening  to  these  glowing  descrip- 
tions of  satin  dresses,  diamonds,  and  feathers,  sometimes 
wished  that  she  were  rich  and  could  have  a taste  of  fashion. 
To  be  sure,  her  guardian  bought  her  always  more  than  she 
needed,  but  it  was  not  hers,  and  without  any  particular  reason 
why  she  should  do  so  she  felt  that  she  was  a dependent  and 
something  of  an  inferior,  especially  when  Frederic  came  home 
from  college  with  his  aristocratic  manners,  his  genteel  dress, 
his  graceful  mustache,  and  the  soft  scent  of  perfumery  he 
usually  carried  with  him.  He  was  always  polite  and  kind  to 
Marian,  but  she  felt  that  there  was  a gulf  between  them.  He 
was  handsome — she  was  plain;  he  was  rich — she  was  poor; 
he  was  educated,  and  she — alas,  for  Marian’s  education— she 
read  a great  deal,  but  never  yet  had  she  given  herself  up  to  a 
systematic  course  of  study.  Governesses  she  had  in  plenty, 
but  she  usually  coaxed  them  off  into  the  woods,  or  down  by 
the  river,  where  she  left  them  to  do  what  they  pleased  while 
she  learned  many  a lesson  from  the  great  book  of  nature, 
spread  out  so  beautifully  before  her.  All  this  had  tended  to 
make  and  keep  her  a very  child,  and  it  was  not  until  her  four- 
teenth year  that  anything  occurred  to  develop  the  genuine 
womanly  qualities  which  she  possessed. 

By  the  death  of  a distant  relative,  a little  unfortunate  blind 
girl  was  left  to  Col.  Raymond’s  care,  and  was  immediately 
taken  to  Redstone  Hall,  where  she  became  the  pet  of  Marian, 
who  loved  nothing  in  the  whole  world  as  dearly  as  the  poor 
blind  Alice.  And  well  was  that  love  repaid;  for  to  the  child, 
six  years  of  age,  Marian  Lindsey  was  the  embodiment  of 
everything  beautiful,  pure  and  good.  Frederic,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  a kind  of  terror  to  the  little  Alice.  “He  was  so 
precise  and  stuck  up,”  she  said;  “and  when  he  was  at  home, 
Marian  was  not  a bit  like  herself.”  To  Marian,  however,  his 
occasional  visits  to  Redstone  Hall  were  sources  of  great 
pleasure.  To  look  at  his  handsome  figure,  to  listen  to  his  voice, 
to  anticipate  his  slightest  wish  and  minister  to  his  wants  so 


6 


MARIAN  GREY 


quietly  that  he  scarcely  knew  from  whom  the  attention  came, 
was  happiness  for  her,  and  when  he  smiled  upon  her,  as  he 
often  did,  calling  her  “A  good  little  girl,”  she  felt  repaid  for 
all  she  had  done.  Occasionally,  since  her  guardian’s  illness, 
she  had  thought  of  the  future  when  some  fine  lady  might  pos- 
sibly come  to  Redstone  Hall  as  its  mistress,  but  the  subject 
was  an  unpleasant  one,  and  she  always  dismissed  it  from  her 
mind.  In  her  estimation,  there  were  few  worthy  to  be  the 
wife  of  Frederic — certainly  not  herself — and  when  the  idea 
was  suggested  to  her  by  his  father  she  regarded  it  as  an  utter 
impossibility.  Still,  it  kept  her  wakeful,  and  once  she  said 
softly  to  herself,  “I  could  love  him  so  much  if  he  would  let 
me,  and  I should  be  so  proud  of  him,  too.”  Then,  as  she  re- 
membered the  remark  she  had  heard  him  make  to  his  college 
friend,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  whispered 
sadly:  “Oh,  I wish  I wasn’t  ugly.”  Anon,  however,  there 

came  stealing  over  her  the  thought  that  in  the  estimation  of 
others  she  was  not  as  plain  as  in  that  of  Frederic  Raymond. 
Everybody  seemed  to  like  her,  and  if  she  were  hideous  look- 
ing they  could  not.  Alice,  whose  darkened  eyes  had  never 
looked  upon  the  light  of  day,  and  who  judged  by  the  touch 
alone,  declared  that  she  was  beautiful,  while  old  Dinah  said 
that  age  would  improve  her  as  it  did  wine,  and  that  in  time 
she  would  be  the  handsomest  woman  in  all  Kentucky. 

The  next  day,  somewhat  to  her  disappointment,  her  guard- 
ian did  not  resume  the  conversation  of  the  previous  night. 
He  was  convinced  that  Marian  could  be  easily  won,  but  he 
did  not  think  it  wise  to  encourage  her  until  he  had  talked  with 
his  son,  whose  return  he  looked  for  anxiously.  But  day  after 
day  went  by,  and  it  was  all  in  vain  that  Alice  listened,  and 
Marian  watched,  for  the  daily  stage.  It  never  stopped  at  their 
gate ; and  each  time  that  the  old  man  heard  them  say  that  it 
had  gone  by,  he  groaned  afresh,  fearing  Frederic  would  not 
come  until  it  was  too  late,  for  his  sands  of  life,  he  knew,  were 
running  fast  away. 

“I  can  at  least  tell  him  the  truth  on  paper,”  he  said  to  him- 
self at  last,  “and  it  may  be  he  will  pay  more  heed  to  words 
which  a dead  father  wrote  than  to  words  a living  father 
spoke.” 

Marian  was  accordingly  bidden  to  bring  him  his  little 
writing  desk  and  then  to  leave  the  room,  for  he  would  be  alone 
when  he  wrote  that  letter  of  confession.  It  cost  him  many  a 
fierce  struggle — the  telling  to  his  son  a secret  which  none  save 
himself  and  God  had  ever  known — aye,  which  none  ever  need 
to  know  if  he  would  have  it  so — but  he  would  not.  The  secret 


MARIAN  GREY 


7 


had  worn  his  life  away,  and  he  must  make  reparation  now. 
So,  with  the  perspiration  dropping  from  every  pore,  he  wrote, 
and,  as  he  wrote,  in  his  disordered  imagination  there  stood  be- 
side his  pillow  the  white-haired  Englishman,  watching  care- 
fully to  see  that  justice  was  done  at  last  to  Mariam  Recently 
several  letters  had  passed  between  the  father  and  his  son  con- 
cerning the  marriage  of  the  latter  with  Marian — a marriage 
every  way  distasteful  to  the  young  man,  who,  in  his  answer, 
had  said  far  harsher  things  of  Marian  than  he  usually  meant, 
hoping  thus  to  put  an  end  at  once  to  his  father’s  plan.  She 
was  “rough,  uncouth,  uneducated,  and  ugly,”  he  said,  “and 
if  his  father  did  not  give  up  that  foolish  fancy  he  should  pos- 
sibly hate  the  red-headed  fright.” 

All  this  the  old  man  touched  upon — quoting  the  very  words 
his  son  had  used,  and  whispering  to  himself : “Poor — poor 

Marian,  it  would  break  her  heart  to  know  that  he  said  that, 
but  she  never  will — she  never  will” ; and  then,  with  the  energy 
of  despair,  he  wrote  out  the  great  reason  why  she  must  be  the 
wife  of  his  son,  pleading  with  him,  as  only  a dying  man  can 
plead,  that  he  would  not  disregard  the  wishes  of  his  father, 
and  begging  of  him  to  forget  the  dark-haired  Isabel,  who, 
though  perhaps  more  beautiful,  was  not — could  not  be — as 
pure,  as  gentle,  and  as  good  as  Marian. 

The  letter  was  finished,  and  ’mid  burning  tears  of  remorse 
and  shame  the  old  man  read  it  through. 

“Yes,  that  will  do,”  he  said.  “Frederic  will  heed  what’s 
written  here.  He’ll  marry  her  or  else  make  restitution” ; and, 
laying  it  away,  he  commenced  the  last  and  hardest  part  of  all 
— the  confessing  to  Marian  how  he  had  sinned  against  her. 

Although  there  was  no  tie  of  blood  between  them,  the  gentle 
young  girl  had  crept  down  into  his  inmost  heart,  where  once 
he  treasured  a little  golden-haired  girl,  who,  before  Frederic 
was  born,  died  on  his  lap  and  went  to  the  heaven  made  for 
such  as  she.  In  the  first  moments  of  his  bereavement  he  had 
thought  his  loss  could  never  be  repaired,  but  when,  with  her 
Isoft  arms  around  his  neck,  Marian  Lindsey  had  murmured  in 
his  ear  how  much  she  loved  the  only  father  she  had  ever 
known,  he  felt  that  the  angel  he  had  lost  was  restored  to  him 
tenfold  in  the  little  English  girl.  He  knew  that  she  believed 
there  was  in  him  no  evil,  and  his  heart  throbbed  with  agony 
as  he  nerved  himself  to  tell  her  how  for  years  he  had  acted  a 
villian’s  part,  but  it  was  done  at  last,  and  with  a passionate  ap- 
peal for  her  forgiveness,  and  a request  that  she  would  not 
forget  him  wholly,  but  come  sometimes  to  visit  his  lonely 
grave,  he  finished  the  letter,  and  folding  it  up,  wrote  upon  its> 


a 


MARIAN  GREY 


back:  'Tor  Marian”;  then,  taking  the  one  intended  for 

Frederic,  he  attempted  to  write  "For  my  son,”  but  the  ink 
was  gone  from  his  pen — there  was  a blur  before  his  eyes, 
and  though  he  traced  the  words,  he  left  no  impress  and 
the  letter  bore  no  superscription  to  tell  to  whom  it  belonged. 
Stepping  upon  the  floor,  he  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  to  the 
adjoining  room,  his  library,  and  placing  both  letters  in  his 
private  drawer,  retired  to  his  bed,  where,  utterly  exhausted, 
he  fell  asleep. 

When  at  last  he  awoke,  Marian  was  sitting  by  his  side,  and 
to  her  he  communicated  what  he  had  done,  telling  where  the 
letters  were,  and  that  if  he  died  ere  Frederic’s  return,  she  must 
give  the  one  bearing  the  words  "For  my  son”  to  him. 

"You  will  not  read  it,  of  course,”  he  said,  "nor  ever  seek 
to  know  what  its  contents  are.” 

Had  Marian  Lindsey  been  like  many  girls,  this  caution 
would  have  insured  the  reading  of  the  letter  at  once,  but  she 
fortunately  shrank  from  anything  dishonorable,  and  was 
blessed  with  but  a limited  share  of  woman’s  curiosity;  conse- 
quently the  letter  was  safe  in  her  care,  even  though  no  one 
ever  came  to  claim  it.  All  that  afternoon  she  sat  by  her 
guardian,  and  when  as  usual  the  stage  thundered  down  the 
turnpike,  leaving  no  Frederic  at  the  door,  she  soothed  him 
with  the  hope  that  he  would  be  there  tomorrow.  But  the  mor- 
row came  and  went  as  did  other  tomorrows,  until  at  last  Col. 
Raymond  grew  so  ill  that  a telegram  was  dispatched  to  the 
truant  boy,  bidding  him  hasten  if  he  would  see  his  father  again 
alive. 

"That  will  bring  him,”  the  old  man  said,  while  the  big  tears 
rolled  down  his  wrinkled  face.  "He’ll  be  here  in  a few  days,” 
and  he  asked  that  his  bed  might  be  moved  near  the  window, 
where,  propped  upon  pillows,  he  watched  with  childish  im- 
patience for  the  coming  of  his  boy. 


CHAPTER  II 


FATHER  AND  SON 

A telegram  from  Frederic,  who  was  coming  home  at  last ! 
He  would  be  there  that  very  day,  and  the  inmates  of  Redstone 
Hall  were  thrown  into  a state  of  unusual  excitement.  Old 
Dinah,  in  jaunty  turban  and  clean  white  apron,  bustled  her- 
self from  the  kitchen  to  the  dining  room,  and  from  the  dining 
room  back  to  the  kitchen,  jingling  her  huge  bunch  of  keys 
with  an  air  of  great  importance,  and  kicking  from  under  her 
feet  any  luckless  black  baby  which  chanced  to  be.  in  her  way, 
making  always  an  exception  in  favor  of  “Victoria  Eugenia, 
who  bore  a striking  resemblance  to  herself,  and  would  some 
day  call  her  “gran’mam.”  Dinah  was  in  her  element,  for 
nothing  pleased  her  better  than  the  getting  up  of  a “tiptop 
dinner/'  and,  fully  believing  that  Frederic  had  been  half 
starved  in  a land  where  they  didn’t  have  hoe  cake  and  bacon 
three  times  a day,  she  determined  upon  giving  him  one  full 
meal,  such  as  would  make  his  stomach  ache  for  three  whole 
hours  at  least ! 

Mr.  Raymond,  too,  was  better  than  usual  today,  and  at  his 
post  by  the  window  watched  eagerly  the  distant  turn  in  the 
road  where  the  stage  would  first  appear.  In  her  chamber 
Marian  too  was  busy  with  her  toilet,  trying  the  effect  of  dress 
after  dress,  and  at  Alice’s  suggestion  deciding  at  last  upon  a 
pale  blue  which  harmonized  well  with  her  fair  complexion. 

Suddenly  Alice’s  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the  distant 
stage,  and  in  a few  moments  Marian,  from  behind  her  half- 
closed  shutter,  was  watching  the  young  man  as  he  came 
slowly  up  the  avenue  which  led  from  the  highway  to  the 
house.  His  step  was  usually  bounding  and  rapid,  but  now  he 
lingered  as  if  unwilling  to  reach  the  door. 

“ Tis  because  of  his  father,”  thought  Marian.  “He  fears 
he  may  be  dead.” 

But  not  of  his  father  alone  was  Frederic  thinking  then.  It 
was  not  pleasant,  this  coming  home,  for  aside  from  the  fear 
that  his  father  might  really  die  was  a dread  of  what  that  father 
might  ask  of  him  to  do.  For  Marian,  as  a sister,  he  had  no 
dislike,  for  he  knew  she  possessed  many  gentle,  womanly  vir- 

Marian  Grey  9 


10 


MARIAN  GREY 


tues,  but  from  the  thoughts  of  making  her  his  wife  he  in- 
stinctively shrank.  Only  one  had  the  shadow  of  a claim  to 
bear  that  relation  to  him,  and  of  her  he  was  thinking  that 
September  afternoon  as  he  came  up  the  walk.  She  was  poor 
he  knew  and  the  daughter  of  his  landlady,  who  claimed  a dis- 
tark  relationship  with  his  father;  but  she  was  beautiful  and 
a queen  might  covet  her  stately  bearing  and  polished,  graceful 
mannei.  Into  her  heart  he  had  never  looked,  for,  satisfied 
with  the  fair  exterior,  he  failed  to  see  the  treachery  lurking 
m her  large  black  eyes,  or  yet  to  detect  the  fierce,  stormy  pas- 
sions which  had  a home  within  her  breast. 

Isabella  Huntington,  or  “Cousin  Bell,”  as  he  called  her,  was 
beautiful,  accomplished,  and  artful,  and  during  the  year  that 
hrederic  Raymond  had  been  an  inmate  of  her  mother’s  family 
she  had  succeeded  in  so  completely  inflating  the  youn<* 
man  that  now  there  was  to  him  but  one  face  in  the  world,  and 
that  in  fancy  shone  upon  him  even  when  it  was  far  away 
He  had  never  said  to  her  that  he  loved  her,  for,  though  often 
tempted  to  do  so,  something  had  always  interposed  itself  be- 
tween them,  bidding  him  wait  until  he  knew  her  better.  Con- 
sequently he  was  not  bound  to  her  by  words,  but  he  thought  it 
very  probable  that  she  would  one  day  be  his  wife,  and  as  he 
drew  near  to  Redstone  Hall  he  could  not  forbear  feeling  a 
glow  of  pride,  fancying  how  she  would  grace  that  elegant  man- 
sion as  its  rightful  mistress.  Of  Marian,  too,  he  thought — 
harsh,  bitter  thoughts,  mingled  with  softer  emotions  as  he 
reflected  that  she  possibly  knew  nothing  of  his  father’s  plan. 
He  pitied  her,  he  said,  for  if  his  father  died  she  would  be 
alone  in  the  world.  After  what  had  passed,  it  would  hardly 
be  pleasant  for  him  to  have  her  there  where  he  could  see  her 
every  day ; she  might  not  be  agreeable  to  Isabel  either,  and  he 
should  probably  provide  for  her  handsomely  and  have  her  live 
somewhere  else— at  a fashionable  boarding  school,  perhaps ! 

The  meeting  between  the  father  and  son  was  an  affecting 
one — the  former  sobbing  like  a child,  and  asking  of  the  latter 
why  he  had  tarried  so  long.  The  answer  to  this  question  was 
that  Frederic  had  been  absent  from  New  Haven  for  three 
weeks,  and  that  Isabel,  who  took  charge  of  his  letters,  neg- 
lected to  forward  the  one  written  by  Marian.  At  the  mention 
of  Isabel  the  old  man’s  cheek  flushed,  and  he  said  impatiently, 
“The  neglect  was  an  unpardonable  one,  for  the  letter  bore  on 
its  face  Tn  haste.’  Perhaps,  though,  she  did  it  purposely, 
hoping  thus  to  keep  you  from  me.” 

Instantly  Frederic  warmed  up  in  Isabels  defense,  saying  she 
was  incapable  of  a mean  act.  He  doubted  whether  she  had 


MARIAN  GREY 


11 


observed  the  words  “In  haste”  at  all,  and  if  she  did  she  only 
withheld  it  for  the  sake  of  saving  him  from  anxiety  as  long 
as  possible. 

At  this  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  little,  uncertain  feet 
near  the  door,  and  Alice  groped  her  way  into  the  room.  She 
was  a fair,  sweet-faced  little  child,  and,  taking  her  upon  his 
knee,  Frederic  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  asked  her  many 
questions  as  to  what  she  had  done  since  he  was  home  six 
months  before.  Seldom  before  had  he  paid  her  so  much  at- 
tention, and  feeling  anxious  that  Marian  should  be  similarly 
treated,  the  little  girl,  after  answering  his  questions,  said  to 
him  coaxingly : “Won’t  you  kiss  Marian,  too,  when  she  comes 
down?  She’s  been  ever  so  long  dressing  herself  and  trying 
to  look  pretty.” 

Instantly  the  eyes  of  the  father  and  the  son  met — those  of 
the  former  expressive  of  entreaty,  while  those  of  the  latter 
flashed  with  defiance. 

“Go  for  Marian,  child,  and  tell  her  to  come  here,”  said  Mr. 
Raymond. 

Alice  obeyed,  and  as  she  left  the  room  Frederic  said  bit- 
terly : “I  see  she  is  leagued  with  you.  I had  thought  better  of 
her  than  that.” 

“No,  she  isn’t !”  cried  the  father,  fearing  that  his  favorite 
project  was  in  danger.  “I  merely  suggested  it  to  her  once — 
only  once.” 

Frederic  was  about  to  reply  when  the  rustling  of  female 
garments  announced  the  approach  of  Marian.  To  Col.  Ray- 
mond she  was  handsome  then  as,  with  a heightened  bloom 
upon  her  cheek  and  a bashful  light  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  she 
entered  timidly  and  offered  her  hand  to  Frederic.  But  to  the 
jealous  young  man  she  was  merely  a plain,  ordinary  country 
girl,  bearing  no  comparison  to  the  peerless  Isabel.  Still,  he 
greeted  her  kindly,  addressed  to  her  a few  trivial  remarks, 
and  then  resumed  his  conversation  with  little  Alice,  who,  feel- 
ing that  matters  were  going  wrong,  rolled  her  eyes  often  and 
anxiously  toward  the  spot  where  she  knew  Marian  was  sitting, 
and  when  at  last  the  latter  left  the  room,  she  said  to  Frederic: 
“Isn’t  Marian  pretty  in  her  blue  dress,  with  all  those  curls? 
There  are  twenty  of  them,  for  I heard  her  count  them.  Say 
she  is  pretty,  so  I can  tell  her  and  make  her  feel  good.” 

Frederic  would  not  then  have  admitted  that  Marian  was 
pretty,  even  had  he  thought  so,  and  biting  his  lip  with  vexa- 
tion he  replied:  “I  do  not  particularly  admire  blue,  and  I 

detest  corkscrew  curls.” 

Marian  was  still  in  the  lower  hall  and  heard  both  the  ques- 


12 


MARIAN  GREY 


tion  and  the  answer.  Darting  up  the  stairs,  she  flew  to  her 
chamber,  and  throwing  herself  upon  the  bed,  burst  into  a pas- 
sionate flood  of  tears.  All  in  vain  had  she  dressed  herself  for 
Frederic  Raymond’s  eye;  curling  her  hair  in  twenty  curls, 
even  as  Alice  had  said.  He  hated  blue — he  hated  curls — cork- 
screw curls  particularly.  What  could  he  mean?  She  never 
heard  the  term  thus  applied  before.  It  must  have  some  refer- 
ence to  their  color,  and  clutching  at  her  luxuriant  tresses  she 
would  have  torn  them  from  her  head,  had  not  a little  childish 
hand  been  laid  upon  hers  and  Alice’s  soothing  voice  mur- 
mured in  her  ear:  “Don’t  cry,  Marian;  I wouldn’t  care  for 

him.  He’s  just  as  mean  as  he  can  be,  and  if  I owned  Red- 
stone Hall  I wouldn’t  let  him  live  here,  would  you?” 

“Yes — no — I don’t  know,”  sobbed  Marian.  “I  don’t  own 
Redstone  Hall.  I don’t  own  anything,  and  I ’most  wish  I was 
dead.” 

Alice  was  unaccustomed  to  such  a burst  of  passion,  and  was 
trying  to  frame  some  reply  when  the  dinner  bell  rang,  and  lift- 
ing up  her  head  Marian  said:  “Go  down,  Alice,  and  tell 

Dinah  I can’t  come,  and,  if  she  insists,  tell  her  I won’t!” 
Alice  knew  she  was  in  earnest,  and  going  below  she  de- 
livered the  message  to  Dinah  in  the  presence  of  Frederic,  who 
silently  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 

“For  the  dear  Lord’s  sake,  what’s  happened  to  her  now?” 
said  Dinah,  casting  a rueful  glance  at  Marian’s  empty  chair. 

“She’s  crying,”  returned  Alice,  “and  she  dislikes  somebody 
in  this  room  awfully;  ’tain’t  you,  Dinah,  nor  ’tain’t  me,”  and 
the  blind  eyes  flashed  indignantly  at  Frederic,  who  smiled 
quietly  as  he  replied,  “Thank  you,  Miss  Alice.” 

Alice  made  no  reply,  and  the  dinner  proceeded  in  silence. 
After  it  was  over  Frederic  returned  to  his  father,  who  had 
been  nerving  himself  for  the  task  he  had  to  perform,  and 
which  he  determined  should  be  done  at  once. 

“Lock  the  door,  Frederic,”  he  said,  “and  then  sit  by  me 
while  I say  to  you  what  I have  so  long  wished  to  say.” 

With  a lowering  brow  Frederic  complied,  and  seating  him- 
self near  to  his  father,  he  folded  his  arms  and  said:  “Go  on, 
I am  ready  now  to  hear,  but  if  it  is  of  Marian  you  would 
speak,  I will  spare  you  that  trouble,  father,”  and  Frederic’s 
voice  was  milder  in  its  tone.  “I  have  always  liked  Marian 
very  much  as  a sister,  and  if  it  so  chances  that  you  are  taken 
from  us  I will  be  the  best  of  brothers  to  her.  I will  care  for 
her  and  see  that  she  does  not  want.  Let  this  satisfy  you, 
father,  for  I cannot  marry  her.  I do  not  love  her,  for  I love 
another ; one  compared  to  whom  Marian  is  as  the  night  to  the 


MARIAN  GREY 


13 


day.  Let  me  tell  you  of  Isabel,  father,"  and  Frederic's  voice 
was  still  softer  in  its  tone. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  and  answered  mournfully; 
“No,  Frederic,  were  she  fair  as  the  morning  I could  not  wish 
her  to  be  your  wife.  I have  never  told  you  before,  but  I once 
received  an  anonymous  letter  concerning  this  same  Isabel,  say- 
ing she  was  treacherous  and  deceitful,  and  would  lead  you  on 
to  ruin." 

“The  villain l It  was  Rudolph's  doings,"  muttered  Frederic; 
then  in  a louder  tone  he  said:  “I  can  explain  that,  I think. 

When  Isabel  was  quite  young  she  was  engaged  conditionally  to 
Rudolph  McVicar,  a worthless  fellow  whom  she  has  since  dis- 
carded. He  is  a jealous,  malignant  creature,  and  has  sworn  to 
be  revenged.  He  wrote  that  letter,  I am  sure.  It  is  like  him." 

“It  may  be,"  returned  the  father,  “but  I distrust  this  Isabel. 
Her  mother,  as  you  are  aware,  is  a distant  relative  of  mine. 
I know  her  well,  and,  though  I never  saw  the  daughter,  I am 
sure  she  is  selfish,  ambitious,  deceitful,  and  proud,  while 
Marian  is  so  good." 

“Marian  is  a mere  child,"  interrupted  Frederic. 

“Almost  sixteen,"  rejoined  the  father,  “and  before  you 
marry  her  she  will  be  older  still." 

“Yes,  yes,  much  older,"  thought  Frederic,  continuing  aloud: 
“Listen  to  reason,  father.  I certainly  do  not  love  Marian, 
neither  do  I suppose  that  she  loves  me.  Now,  if  you  have  our 
mutual  good  at  heart,  you  cannot  desire  a marriage  which 
would  surely  result  in  wretchedness  to  both." 

“I  have  thought  of  all  that,"  returned  the  father.  “A  few 
kind  words  from  you  would  win  Marian's  love  at  once,  and 
when  once  won  she  would  be  to  you  a faithful,  loving  wife, 
whom  you  would  ere  long  learn  to  prize.  You  cannot  treat  any 
woman  badly,  Frederic,  much  less  Marian.  I know  you  would 
be  happy  with  her,  and  should  desire  the  marriage  even  though 
it  could  not  save  me  from  dishonor  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world." 

“Father,"  said  Frederic,  turning  slightly  pale,  “what  do  you 
mean?  You  have  in  your  letters  hinted  of  a wrong  done  to 
somebody.  Was  it  to  Marian?  If  so,  do  not  seek  to  sacrifice 
my  happiness,  but  make  amends  in  some  other  way.  Will 
money  repair  the  wrong?  If  so,  give  it  to  her,  even  to  half 
your  fortune,  and  leave  me  alone." 

He  had  touched  a tender  point,  and  raising  himself  in  bed, 
the  old  man  gasped:  “Yes — yes,  boy;  but  you  have  no  money 
to  give  her.  Redstone  Hall  is  not  mine,  not  yours,  but  hers. 
Those  houses  in  Louisville  are  hers,  not  mine,  not  yours. 


14 


MARIAN  GREY 


Everything  you  see  around  you  is  hers,  all  hers;  and  if  you 
refuse  her,  Frederic— hear  me— if  you  refuse  this  Marian 
Lindsey,  strict  retribution  must  be  made,  and  you  will  be  a 
beggar,  as  it  were.  Marry  her,  and  as  her  husband  you  will 
keep  it  all  and  save  me  from  disgrace.  Choose,  Frederic, 
choose.”  . 

Mr.  Raymond  was  terribly  excited,  and  the  great  drops  of 
perspiration  stood  thickly  upon  his  forehead,  and  trickled  from 
beneath  his  hoary  hair. 

“Is  he  going  mad?”  thought  Frederic,  his  own  heart  throb- 
bing with  a nervous  fear  of  coming  evil,  but  ere  he  could 
speak  his  father  continued:  “Hear  my  story,  and  you  will 

know  how  I came  by  these  ill-gotten  gains,”  and  he  glanced 
around  the  richly-furnished  room.  “You  know  I was  sent  to 
England,  or  I could  not  have  gone,  for  I had  no  means  with 
which  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses.  In  the  streets  of  Liver- 
pool I first  saw  Marian's  father,  and  I mistook  him  for  a 
beggar.  Again  I met  him  on  board  the  ship,  and  making  his 
acquaintance  found  him  to  be  a man  of  no  ordinary  intellect. 
There  was  something  about  him  which  pleased  me,  and  when 
he  became  ill  I cared  for  him  as  for  a friend.  The  night  he 
died  we  were  alone,  and  he  confided  to  me  his  history.  He 
was  an  only  child,  and,  orphaned  at  an  early  age,  became  an 
inmate  of  one  of  those  dens  of  cruelty- — those  schools  on  the 
Dotheboys  plan.  From  this  bondage  he  escaped  at  last,  and 
then  for  more  than  thirty  years  employed  his  time  in  making 
and  saving  money.  He  was  a miser  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  and,  though  counting  his  money  by  thousands — yes,  by 
tens  of  thousands,  he  starved  himself  almost  to  death.  No 
one  suspected  his  wealth — not  even  his  young  wife,  Mary 
Grey,  whom  he  married  three  years  before  I met  him,  and 
who  died  when  Marian  was  born.  She,  too,  had  been  an  only 
child  and  an  orphan ; and  as  in  all  England  there  was  none  to 
care  for  him  or  his,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  emigrating  to 
America,  and  there  lavishing  his  stores  of  gold  on  Marian. 
She  should  be  a lady,  he  said,  and  live  in  a palace  fit  for  a 
queen.  But  death  overtook  him,  and  to  me  he  intrusted  his 
child  with  all  his  money — some  in  gold,  and  some  in  bank 
notes.  And  when  he  was  dying,  Frederic,  and  the  perspira- 
tion was  cold  on  his  brow,  he  made  me  lay  my  hand  there 
and  swear  to  be  faithful  to  my  trust  as  guardian  of  his  child. 
For  her,  and  for  her  alone,  the  money  must  be  used.  But, 
Frederic,  I broke  that  oath.  The  Raymonds  are  noted  for 
their  love  of  gain,  and  when  the  Englishman  was  buried  in  the 
sea,  the  tempter  whispered  that  the  avenue  to  wealth,  which  I 


MARIAN  GREY 


15 


so  long  had  coveted,  was  open  now — that  no  one  knew  or 
would  ever  know  of  the  miser’s  fortune ; and  I yielded.  I 
guarded  the  bag  where  the  treasure  was  hidden  with  more 
than  a miser’s  vigilance,  and  I chuckled  with  delight  when  I 
counted  it  out  and  found  it  far  more  than  he  had  said.” 

“Oh,  my  father,  my  father !”  groaned  Frederic,  covering  Ins 
white  face  with  his  hands,  for  he  knew  now  that  he  was  penm- 
less. 

“Don’t  curse  me,  boy!”  hoarsely  whispered  the  old  man; 
“Marian  will  not.  She’ll  forgive  me— for  Marian  is  an  angel ; 
but  I must  hasten.  You  remember  how  I grew  gradually  rich 
and  people  talked  of  my  good  luck.  Very  cautiously  I used  the 
money  at  first,  so  as  not  to  excite  suspicion,  but  when  I came 
to  Kentucky,  where  I was  not  known,  I was  less  fearful,  and 
launched  into  speculation,  until  now  they  say  I am  the 
wealthiest  man  in  Franklin  County.  But  it’s  hers — it’s 
Marian’s— every  cent  of  it  is  hers.  Your  education  was 
paid  for  with  her  money;  all  you  have  and  are  you  owe  to 
Marian  Lindsey,  who,  by  every  law  of  the  land,  is  the  heiress 
of  Redstone  Hall.” 

He  paused  a moment,  and,  trembling  with  emotion,  Frederic 
said:  “Is  there  nothing  ours,  father?  Our  old  home  on  the 
Hudson  ? That,  surely,  is  not  hers  ?” 

“You  are  right,”  returned  the  father,  “the  old  shell  was 
mine,  but  when  I brought  Marian  home  it  was  not  worth  a 
thousand  dollars,  and  it  was  all  I had  in  the  world.  Her 
money  has  made  it  what  it  is.  I always  intended  to  tell  her 
when  she  was  old  enough  to  understand,  but  as  time  went  by 
I shrank  from  it,  particularly  when  I saw  how  much  you 
prized  the  luxuries  which  money  alone  can  buy,  and  how  that 
money  kept  you  in  the  proud  position  you  occupy.  But  it  has 
killed  me,  Frederic,  before  my  time,  and  now  at  the  last  do 
you  wonder  that  I wish  restitution  to  be  made  ? I would  save 
you  from  poverty  and  my  name  from  disgrace  by  marrying 
you  to  Marian.  She  must  know  the  truth,  of  course,  for  in 
no  other  way  can  my  conscience  be  satisfied — but  the  world 
would  still  be  kept  in  ignorance.” 

“And  if  I do  not  marry  her,  oh,  father  must  it  come— 
poverty,  disgrace,  everything?” 

The  young  man’s  voice  was  almost  heartbroken  in  its  tone, 
but  the  old  man  wavered  not  as  he  answered:  “Yes,  Frederic, 
it  must  come.  If  you  refuse,  I must  deed  it  all  to  her.  The 
lawyer,  of  course,  must  know  the  cause  of  so  strange  a pro- 
ceeding, and  I have  no  faith  that  he  would  keep  the  secret, 
even  if  Marian  should.  I left  it  in  writing  in  case  you  did  not 


16 


MARIAN  GREY 


come,  and  I gave  you  my  dying  curse  if  you  failed  of  restoring 
to  Marian  her  fortune.  But  you  are  here — you  have  heard 
my  story,  and  it  remains  for  you  to  choose.  You  have  never 
taken  care  of  yourself — have  never  been  taught  to  think  it 
necessary — -and  how  can  you  struggle  with  poverty?  Would 
that  Isabel  join  her  destiny  with  one  who  had  not  where  to  lay 
his  head?” 

“Stop,  father!  in  mercy  stop,  ere  you  drive  me  mad!”  and 
starting  to  his  feet,  Frederic  paced  the  floor  wildly,  dis- 
tractedly. 

A dark  cloud  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  turn  which  way  he 
would,  it  wrapped  him  in  its  gloomy  folds.  He  knew  his 
father  would  keep  his  word,  and  he  desired  that  he  should  do 
so.  It  was  right,  and  he  shrank  from  any  further  injustice  to 
the  orphan,  Marian,  with  whom  he  had  suddenly  changed 
places.  He  was  the  dependent  now,  and  hers  the  hand  that 
fed  him.  Frederic  Raymond  was  proud,  and  the  remembrance 
of  his  father’s  words:  “Her  money  paid  for  your  education; 
all  you  have  and  are  you  owe  to  Marian  Lindsey,”  stung  him 
to  his  utmost  soul.  Still  he  could  not  make  her  his  wife.  It 
would  be  a greater  wrong  than  even  his  father  had  done  to 
her.  And  yet,  if  he  had  never  seen  Isabel,  never  mingled  in 
the  society  of  beautiful  and  accomplished  women,  he  might 
perhaps  have  learned  to  love  the  gentle  little  girl,  whose  pres- 
ence, he  knew,  made  the  life  and  light  of  Redstone  Hall.  But 
he  could  not  do  it  now,  and  going  up  to  his  father,  he  said, 
hesitatingly,  as  if  it  cost  a bitter,  agonized  struggle  to  give  up 
all  his  wealth:  “I  cannot  do  it,  father;  neither  would 

Marian  wish  it,  if  she  knew.  Send  for  her  now,”  he  con- 
tinued, as  a new  idea  flashed  upon  him,  “tell  her  all,  here  in 
my  presence,  and  let  her  choose  for  me;  but  stay,”  he  added, 
quickly,  coloring  crimson  at  the  unmanly  selfishness  which  had 
prompted  the  sending  for  Marian,  a selfishness  which  whis- 
pered that  the  generous  girl  would  share  her  fortune  with 
him;  “stay,  we  will  not  send  for  her.  I can  decide  the  matter 
alone.” 

“Not  now,”  returned  the  father.  “Wait  until  tomorrow  at 
nine  o’clock.  If  you  do  not  come  to  me  then,  I shall  send  for 
Lawyer  Gibson,  and  the  writings  will  be  drawn.  I give  you 
until  that  time  to  decide;  and  now  leave  me,  for  I would  rest.” 

He  motioned  toward  the  door,  and  glad  to  escape  from  an 
atmosphere  which  seemed  laden  with  grief,  Frederic  went  out 
into  the  open  air,  and  Col.  Raymond  was  again  alone.  His 
first  thought  was  of  the  letter — the  one  intended  for  his  son. 
He  could  destroy  that  now — for  he  would  not  that  Marian 


MARIAN  GREY 


17 


should  ever  know  what  it  contained.  She  might  not  be  Fred- 
eric’s  wife,  but  he  would  save  her  from  unnecessary  pain, 
and  exerting  all  his  strength,  he  tottered  to  his  private  drawer, 
and  took  the  letter  in  his  hand.  It  was  growing  very  dark 
within  the  room,  and  holding  it  up  to  the  fading  light,  the 
dim-eyed  old  man  read,  or  thought  he  read,  “For  my  son. 

“Yes,  this  is  the  one,”  he  whispered — “the  other  reads,  For 
Marian,’  ” and  hastening  back  to  his  bedroom,  he  threw  upon 
the  fire  burning  in  the  grate  the  letter,  but  alas,  the  wrong  one 
—for  in  his  drawer  still  lay  the  fatal  missive,  which  would 
one  day  well-nigh  break  poor  Marian’s  heart,  and  drive  her 
forth  a wanderer  from  the  home  she  loved  so  well. 

That  night  Frederic  did  not  come  down  to  supper.  He  was 
weary  with  his  rapid  journey,  he  said,  and  would  rather  rest. 
So  Marian,  who  had  dried  her  tears  and  half  forgotten  their 
cause,  sat  down  to  her  solitary  tea,  little  dreaming  of  the 
stormy  scene  which  the  walls  of  Frederic’s  chamber  looked 
upon  that  night.  All  through  the  dreary  hours  he  walked  the 
floor,  and  when  the  morning  light  came  struggling  through  the 
windows,  it  found  him  pale,  haggard,  and  older  by  many  years 
than  he  had  seemed  the  day  before.  He  heard  the  clock  strike 
eight,  and  a moment  after  breakfast  was  announced. 

“Say  I am  not  ready  yet,  and  tell  Marian  not  to  wait,  was 
the  message  he  gave  the  servant ; and  so  another  hour  passed 
by,  and  heard  the  clock  strike  nine. 

His  hour  was  up,  but  he  could  not  yet  decide.  He  walked 
to  the  window  and  looked  down  upon  his  home,  which  never 
seemed  so  beautiful  before  as  on  that  bright  September  morn- 
ing. He  could  stay  there  if  he  chose,  for  he  felt  sure  that  he 
could  win  Marian’s  love  if  he  tried.  And  then  he  wondered 
if  his  life  would  not  be  made  happier  with  the  knowledge  that 
he  had  obeyed  his  father’s  request  and  saved  his  name  from 
dishonor.  There  was  the  sound  of  horses’  feet  upon  the 
graveled  road.  It  was  the  negro  Jake,  and  he  was  going  for 
Lawyer  Gibson. 

Rapidly  another  hour  went  by,  and  then  he  heard  the  sound 
of  horses’  hoofs  again,  but  this  time  there  were  two  who  rode 
—Jake  and  the  lawyer.  In  a moment  the  latter  was  at  the 
door,  and  the  sound  of  his  feet  as  he  strode  through  the  lower 
hall  went  to  the  heart  of  the  listening  young  man  like  bolts  of 
ice.  He  heard  a servant  call  Marian  and  say  that  his  father 
wanted  her ; some  new  idea  had  entered  into  the  sick  man’s 
head.  He  had  probably,  decided  to  tell  her  all  before  he  died ; 
but  it  was  not  yet  too  late  to  prevent  it,  and  with  a face  as 
white  as  ashes,  and  limbs  which  trembled  in  every  joint,  he 


IS 


MARIAN  GREY 


hurried  down  the  stairs,  meeting  in  the  hall  both  Marian  and 
the  lawyer. 

“Go  back,”  he  whispered  to  the  former,  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder;  “I  would  see  my  father  first  alone.” 

Wonderingly  Marian  looked  into  his  pale,  worn  face  and 
bloodshot  eyes;  then  motioning  the  lawyer  into  another  room, 
she,  too,  followed  him  thither,  while  Frederic  sought  his 
father's  bedside,  and  bending  low,  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the 
bewildered  and  half -crazed  man  that  he  would  marry  the 
heiress  of  Redstone  Hall ! 


CHAPTER  III 


DEATH  AT  REDSTONE  HALL 

For  two  days  after  the  morning  of  which  we  have  written, 
Col.  Raymond  lay  in  a kind  of  stupor  from  which  he  would 
arouse  at  intervals,  and  pressing  the  hand  of  his  son,  who 
watched  beside  him,  he  would  whisper,  faintly:  Cod  bless 

you  for  making  your  old  father  so  happy.  God  bless  you,  my 

daAncf  Frederic,  as  often  as  he  heard  these  words  would  lay 
his  aching  head  upon  the  pillow  and  try  to  force  back  the 
thoughts  which  continually  whispered  to  him  that  a bad  prom- 
ise was  better  broken  than  kept,  and  that  at  the  last  he  would 
tell  Marian  all,  and  throw  himself  upon  her  generosity,  Since 
the  morning  when  he  made  the  fatal  promise  he  had  said  but 
little  to  her,  though  she  had  been  often  in  the  room,  minister- 
ing to  his  father’s  comfort,  and  once  in  the  evening  when  he 
looked  more  than  usuallly  pale  and  weary,  she  had  insisted 
upon  taking  his  place,  or  sharing  at  least  in  the  vigils.  But  he 
had  declined  her  offer,  and  two  hours  later  a slender  little 
figure  had  glided  noiselessly  into  the  room  and  placed  upon  the 
table  behind  him  a waiter,  filled  with  delicacies  which  her  own 
hand  had  prepared  and  which  she  knew  from  experience 
would  be  needed  ere  the  long  night  was  over.  He  did  not 
turn  his  head  when  she  came  in,  but  he  thanked  her  for  her 
thoughtfulness  and  compelled  himself  to  eat  what  she  brought 
because  he  knew  how  disappointed  she  would  be  if,  in  the 
morning,  she  found  it  all  untouched. 

And  still  he  was  as  far  from  loving  her  now  as  he  had  ever 
been;  and  on  the  second  night,  as  he  sat  by  his  sleeping 
father,  he  resolved,  come  what  might,  he  would  retract  the 
promise  made  under  such  excitement.  “When  father  wakes, 
I’ll  tell  him  I cannot,”  he  said,  and  anxiously  he  watched  the 
clock,  which  pointed  at  last  to  midnight.  The  twelve  loud 
strokes  rang  through  the  silent  room,  and  with  a short,  quick 
gasp  his  father  awoke. 

“Frederic,”  he  said,  and  in  his  voice  there  was  a tone  never 
heard  there  before.  “Frederic,  has  the  light  gone^out,  or  why 
is  it  so  dark  ? Where  are  we,  for  I cannot  see  ? 1 
Marian  Grey  19 


20 


MARIAN  GREY 


“The  light  is  burning— here  I am,”  and  Frederic  took  in  his 
the  shriveled  hand  which  was  cold  with  appoaching  death. 

“Frederic,  it  has  come  at  last,  and  I am  going  from  you,  but 
before  I go  lay  your  hand  upon  my  brow,  where  the  death 
sweat  is  standing,  and  say  again  what  you  said  two  days  ago. 
Say  you  will  make  Marian  your  wife,  and  that  until  she  is 
your  wife  she  shall  not  know  what  I have  done,  for  that  might 
influence  her  decision.  The  letter  I have  left  for  her  is  in  my 
private  drawer,  but  you  can  keep  the  key.  Promise  me,  Fred- 
eric, promise  me  both,  for  I am  going  very  fast.” 

Twice  Frederic  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  words  “I  cannot,” 
died  on  his  lips,  and  again  in  the  faint  voice — fainter  than 
when  it  spoke  before,  said,  “Promise,  my  boy,  and  save  the 
name  of  Raymond  from  dishonor.” 

It  was  in  vain  he  struggled  to  resist  his  destiny.  The  plead- 
ing tones  of  his  dying  father  prevailed.  Isabel  Huntington — 
Marian  Lindsey — Redstone  Hall — everything  seemed  as 
nought  compared  with  that  father's  wishes,  and  falling  on  his 
knees,  the  young  man  said:  “Heaven  helping  me,  father,  I 

will  do  both.” 

“And  as  you  have  made  me  happy,  ^o  may  you  be  happy 
and  prosper  all  the  days  of  your  life,”  returned  the  father, 
laying  his  clammy  hand  upon  the  brown  head  of  his  son.  “Tell 
Marian  that  dying  I blessed  her  with  more  than  a father's 
blessing,  for  she  is  very  dear  to  me.  And  the  little  helpless 
Alice — she  has  money  of  her  own,  but  she  must  still  live  with 
you  and  Marian.  Be  kind  to  the  servants,  Frederic.  Don't 
part  with  a single  one — and — and — can  you  hear  me,  boy? 
Keep  your  promise  as  you  hope  for  heaven  hereafter.” 

They  were  the  last  words  the  old  man  ever  spoke,  and  when 
at  last  Frederic  raised  his  head  he  knew  by  the  white  face 
lying  motionless  upon  the  pillow  that  he  was  with  the  dead. 

The  next  morning  the  news  spread  rapidly,  not  only  that 
Col.  Raymond  was  dead,  but  also  that  he  had  died  without  a 
will,  this  last  piece  of  information  being  given  by  Lawyer 
Gibson,  who,  a little  disappointed  in  the  result  of  his  late 
visit  to  Redstone  Hall,  had  several  times  in  public  expressed 
his  private  opinion  that  it  was  all  the  work  of  Frederic,  who 
wanted  everything  himself  and  feared  his  father  would  leave 
something  to  Marian  Lindsey.  This  seemed  very  probable; 
and  in  the  same  breath  with  which  they  deplored  the  loss  of 
Col.  Raymond,  the  neighbors  denounced  his  son  as  selfish  and 
avaricious.  Still  he  was  now  the  richest  man  in  the  county, 
and  it  would  not  be  politic  to  treat  him  with  disrespect,  so 
they  came  about  him  with  words  of  sympathy  and  offers  of 


MARIAN  GREY 


21 


assistance,  all  of  which  he  listened  to  abstractedly,  and  when 
they  asked  for  some  directions  as  to  the  arrangements  for  the 
burial,  he  answered:  “I  do  not  know — I am  not  myself  to- 

day— but  go  to  Marian.  I will  abide  by  her  decisions.” 

So  to  Marian  they  went;  and  hushing  her  own  great  grief— 
for  she  mourned  for  the  departed  as  for  a well-loved  father— 
Marian  told  them  what  she  thought  her  guardian  would  wish 
that  they  should  do.  When  the  sun  was  setting,  a long  pro- 
cession wound  slowly  down  the  terraced  walk,  bearing  with 
them  one  who  when  they  returned  came  not  with  them. 

Four  weeks  had  passed  away  since  Col.  Raymond  was  laid 
to  rest.  At  the  funeral  Frederic  had  offered  Marian  his  arm, 
walking  with  her  to  the  grave  and  back ; but  since  that  night 
he  had  kept  aloof,  seeing  her  only  at  the  table  or  when  he 
wished  to  ask  some  question  which  she  alone  could  answer. 

In  the  first  days  of  her  sorrow  she  had  forgotten  the  letter 
which  her  guardian  had  left  for  her,  and  when  she  did  re- 
member it  and  went  to  the  private  drawer  where  he  had  said 
it  was,  she  found  the  drawer  locked.  Frederic  had  the  key,  of 
course,  and  thinking  that  if  a wrong  had  indeed  been  done  to 
her,  he  knew  it,  too,  she  waited  in  hopes  that  he  would  speak 
of  it,  and  perhaps  bring  her  the  letter.  But  Frederic  Ray- 
mond had  sworn  to  keep  that  letter  from  her  yet  a while,  and 
he  dared  not  break  his  vow.  On  the  night  after  the  burial  he, 
too,  had  gone  to  the  private  drawer,  and,  taking  the  undirected 
missive  in  his  hand,  had  felt  strongly  tempted  to  break  its  seal 
and  read.  But  he  had  no  right  to  do  that,  he  said ; all  that  was 
required  of  him  was  to  keep  it  from  Marian  until  such  time 
as  he  was  at  liberty  to  let  her  read  it.  So,  with  a benumbed 
sensation  at  his  heart,  he  locked  the  drawer  and  left  the  room, 
feeling  that  his  own  destiny  was  fixed  and  that  it  was  worse 
than  useless  to  struggle  against  it.  He  could  not  write  to 
Isabel  yet,  but  he  wrote  to  her  mother,  telling  her  of  his 
father’s  death,  and  saying  he  did  not  know  how  long  it  would 
be  ere  they  saw  him  again  at  New  Haven.  This  done,  he  sat 
down  in  a kind  of  torpor  and  waited  for  circumstances  to 
shape  themselves.  Marian  would  seek  for  her  letter,  he 
thought,  and  missing  the  key,  would  come  to  him,  and  then — 
oh,  how  he  hoped  it  would  be  weeks  and  months  before  she 
came,  for  when  she  did  he  knew  he  must  tell  her  why  it  was 
withheld. 

Meantime,  Marian  waited  day  after  day,  vainly  wishing  that 
he  would  speak  to  her  upon  the  subject ; but  he  did  not,  and  at 
last,  four  weeks  after  her  guardian’s  death,  she  sought  the 
library  again,  but  found  the  drawer  locked,  as  usual. 


22 


MARIAN  GREY 


“It  is  unjust  to  treat  me  so,”  she  said.  “The  letter  is  mine 
and  I have  a right  to  read  it.” 

Then,  as  she  recalled  the  conversation  which  had  passed  be- 
tween herself  and  Col.  Raymond  on  that  night  when  he  first 
hinted  of  a wrong,  she  wondered  if  he  had  said  aught  to  Fred- 
eric of  her.  Most  earnestly  she  hoped  not — and  yet  she  was 
almost  certain  that  he  had  and  this  was  why  Frederic  treated 
her  so  strangely.  “He  hates  me,”  she  said,  bitterly,  “because 
he  thinks  I want  him — but  he  needn’t,  for  I wouldn’t  have 
him  now,  even  if  he  knelt  at  my  feet  and  begged  of  me  to  be 
his  wife;  IT1  tell  him  so,  too,  the  first  chance  I get,”  and  sink- 
ing into  the  large  arm  chair,  Marian  laid  her  head  upon  the 
writing  desk  and  wept. 

The  day  had  been  rainy  and  dark,  and  as  she  sat  there  in  the 
gathering  night  and  listened  to  the  low  moan  of  the  October 
wind,  she  thought  with  gloomy  forebodings  of  the  future  and 
what  it  would  bring  to  her. 

“Oh,  it  is  dreadful  to  be  so  homeless — so  friendless — so 
poor,”  she  cried,  and  in  that  cry  there  was  a note  of  desolation 
which  touched  a chord  of  pity  in  the  heart  of  him  who  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  silently  watching  the  young  girl 
as  she  battled  with  her  stormy  grief. 

He  did  not  know  why  he  had  come  to  that  room  and  he 
surely  would  not  have  come  had  he  expected  to  find  her  there. 
But  it  could  not  now  be  helped ; he  was  there  with  her ; he  had 
witnessed  her  sorrow — and  involuntarily  advancing  toward 
her,  he  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  her  shoulder,  and  said: 
“Poor  child — don’t  cry  so  hard.” 

She  seemed  to  him  a little  girl,  and  as  such  he  had  addressed 
her ; but  to  the  startled  Marian  it  mattered  not  what  he  said — 
there  was  kindness  in  his  voice,  and  lifting  up  her  face,  which 
even  in  the  darkness  looked  white  and  worn,  she  sobbed,  “Oh, 
Frederic,  you  don’t  hate  me,  then?” 

“Hate  you,  Marian,”  he  answered;  “of  course  not.  What 
put  that  idea  into  your  head?” 

“Because — because  you  act  so  cold  and  strange  and  don’t 
come  near  me  when  my  heart  is  aching  so  hard  for  him — your 
father.” 

Frederic  made  no  reply,  and  resolving  to  make  a clean 
breast  of  it,  Marian  continued:  “There’s  nobody  to  care  for 

me  now,  and  I wish  you  to  be  my  brother,  just  as  you  used  to 
be,  and  if  your  father  said  anything  else  of  me  to  you,  he 
didn’t  mean  it,  I am  sure ; I don’t,  at  any  rate,  and  I want  you 
to  forget  it  and  not  hate  me  for  it.  I’ll  go  away  from  Rea- 
stone  Hall  if  you  say  so;  but  you  mustn’t  hate  me  for  what  I 


MARIAN  GREY 


23 


jould  not  help.  Will  you,  Frederic?”  and  Marian’s  voice  was 
gain  choked  with  tears.  . 

She  had  stumbled  upon  the  very  subject  uppermost  in  Fred- 
ric’s  mind,  and  drawing  a chair  near  to  her,  he  said,  “I  will 
ot  profess  to  be  ignorant  of  what  you  mean,  Marian.  My 
ather  had  some  strange  fancies  at  the  last,  but  for  these 
ou  are  not  to  blame.  Did  he  say  nothing  to  you  of  a 
itter  ?” 

' “Yes,  yes,”  answered  Marian,  quickly,  “and  I’ve  been  for  it 
o many  times.  Will  you  give  it  to  me  now,  Frederic?  It’s 
line,  you  know,”  and  Marian  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

Frederic  hesitated  a moment,  and  misapprehending  the 
lotive  of  his  hesitancy,  Marian  continued : 

“Do  not  fear  what  I may  think.  He  said  a wrong  had  been 
.one  to  me,  but  if  it  has  not  affected  me  heretofore,  it  surely 
[rill  not  now,  and  I loved  him  well  enough  to  forgive  any- 
hing.  Let  me  have  the  letter,  won’t  you?” 

“Marian,”  and  Frederic  trembled  with  strong  emotion. 
Marian,  the  night  my  father  died,  I laid  my  hand  upon  his 
,ead  and  promised  that  you  should  not  see  that  letter  until  you 
cere  a bride.” 

“A  bride !”  Marian  exclaimed  passionately,  I shall  never 
>e  a bride — never — certainly  not  yours !”  and  the  little  hands 
corked  nervously  together,  while  she  continued : “I  asked  you 
o forget  that  whim  of  your  father’s.  He  did  not  mean  it ; he 
could  not  have  it  so,  and  neither  would  I,”  and  Frederic  Ray- 
nond  could  almost  see  the  angry  flash  of  the  blue  eyes  turned 
o defiantly  toward  him. 

Manlike,  he  began  to  feel  some  interest  now  that  there  was 
ipposition,  and  to  her  exclamation,  “neither  would  I,”  he  re- 
ilied  softly:  “Not  if  I wish  it,  Marian?” 

The  tone  rather  than  the  words  affected  the  young  girl, 
Frilling  her  with  a new-born  delight;  and  laying  her  hand 
.gain  upon  the  desk,  she  sobbed  afresh,  not  impetuously  this 
ime,  but  quietly,  steadily,  as  if  the  crying  did  her  good. 
Ireatly  she  longed  for  him  to  speak  again,  but  he  did  not.  He 
vas  waiting  for  her,  and  drying  her  tears  she  lifted  up  her 
ace  and  in  a voice  which  seemed  to  demand  the  truth,  she 
aid:  “Frederic,  do  you  wish  it?  Here,  almost  in  the  room 

vhere  your  father  died,  can  you  say  to  me,  truly,  that  you 
cish  me  to  be  your  wife^” 

It  was  a perplexing  question,  and  Frederic  Raymond  felt 
hat  he  was  dealing  falsely  with  her,  but  he  made  to  her  the 
inly  answer  he  could : “Men  seldom  ask  a woman  to  marry 

hem  unless  they  wish  it.” 


24 


MARIAN  GREY 


“I  know,”  returned  Marian,  “but  do — would  you  have 
thought  of  it  if  your  father  had  not  first  suggested  it?” 
“Marian,”  said  Frederic,  “I  am  much  older  than  yourself, 
and  I might  never  have  thought  of  marrying  you.  He,  how- 
ever, gave  me  good  reason  why  I should  wish  to  have  it  so— 
in  all  sincerity,  I ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  Will  you,  Marian? 
It  seems  soon  to  talk  of  these  things,  but  he  so  desired  it.” 
In  her  bewilderment  Marian  fancied  he  had  said,  “I  do  wish 
to  have  it  so,”  but  she  would  know  another  thing,  and  not 
daring  to  put  the  question  to  him  direct,  she  said,  “Do  men 
ever  wish  to  marry  one  whom  they  do  not  love?” 

Frederic  understood  her  at  once,  and  for  a moment  felt 
strongly  tempted  to  tell  her  the  truth,  for  in  that  case  he  was 
sure  she  would  refuse  to  listen  to  his  suit  and  he  would  then 
be  free,  but  his  father’s  presence  seemed  over  and  around  him, 
while  Redstone  Hall  was  too  fair  to  be  exchanged  for  pov- 
erty, and  so  he  answered:  “I  have  always  loved  you  as  a 

sister,  and  in  time  I will  love  you  as  you  deserve.  I will  be 
kind  to  you,  Marian,  and  I think  I can  make  you  happy.”  1 
He  spoke  with  earnestness,  for  he  knew  he  was  virtually 
deceiving  the  young  girl,  and  in  his  inmost  soul  he  deter- 
mined to  repair  the  wrong  by  learning  to  love  her,  as  he  said. 
“And  suppose  I refuse  you,  what  then?” 

Marian  spoke  decidedly,  and  something  in  her  manner 
startled  Frederic,  who,  now  that  he  had  gone  thus  far,  did  not 
care  to  be  thwarted. 

“You  will  not  refuse  me,  I am  sure,”  he  said.  “We  cannot 
live  together  here  just  as  we  have  done,  for  people  would 
talk.” 

“I  can  go  away,”  said  Marian,  mournfully,  while  Frederic 
replied:  “No,  Marian,  if  you  will  not  be  my  wife,  I must  go 
away;  Redstone  Hall  cannot  be  the  home  of  us  both,  and  if 
you  refuse  I shall  go — soon,  very  soon.” 

“Won’t  you  ever  come  back?”  asked  Marian,  with  childish 
simplicity;  but  ere  Frederic  could  answer,  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  old  Dinah  appeared,  exclaiming  as  her  eyes  fell 
upon  them:  “For  the  Lord’s  sake,  if  you  two  ain’t  a-sittin’ 

together  in  the  dark,  when  I’ve  done  hunted  everywhar  for 
you,”  and  Dinah’s  face  wore  a very  knowing  look,  as  setting 
down  the  candle  she  departed,  muttering  something  about 
“when  me  and  Philip  was  young.” 

The  spell  was  broken  for  Marian,  and  starting  up,  she  said : 
“I  cannot  talk  any  more  tonight.  I’ll  answer  you  some  other 
time,”  and  she  hurried  into  the  hall,  where  she  stumbled  upon 
Dinah,  who  greeted  her  with  “Ain’t  you  two  kinder  hankerin' 


MARIAN  GREY 


25 


arter  each  other,  case  if  you  be,  it’s  the  sensiblest  thing  you 
ever  done.  Marster  Frederic  is  the  likeliest,  trimmest  chap  in 
Kentuck  and  you’ve  got  an  uncommon  heap  of  sense. 

K Marian  made  no  reply,  but  darted  up  the  stairs  to  her  room, 
where  she  could  1^  alone  to  think.  It  seemed  to  her  a dream 
snH  vet  she  knew  it  was  a reality.  Frederic  had  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife,  and  though  she  had  said  to  herself  that  she  wou  d 
not  marry  him  even  if  he  knelt  at  her  feet  she  felt  vastly 
Hke  revoking  that  decision!  If  she  were  only  sure  he  loved 
her  or  would  love  her,  and  then  she  recalled  every  word  he 
had  said  wishing  she  would  have  looked  into  his  face  and  seen 
what  its*  expression  was.  She  did  not  think  of  the  letter  in 

her  excitement.  She  only  thought  of  Frede”c’s  ^®tl0: 
she  longed  for  someone  in  whom  she  could  confide.  Alice, 
who  always  retired  early,  was  already  asleep,  and  as  her  soft 
breathing  fell  on  Marian’s  ear,  she  said.  Alice  is  much 
wiser  than  children  usually  are  at  six  and  a half.  I mean 
to  tell  her,”  and  stealing  to  the  bedside, ; she  whispered. 
“Alice  Alice,  wake  up  a moment,  will  you? 

Alice  turned  on  her  pillow,  and  when  sure  she  was  awake, 
Marian  said  impetuously : “If  you  were  me,  would  you  marry 

FlThe  blind  eyes  opened  wide,  as  if  they  doubted  the  samty  of 
the  speaker,  then  quietly  replying : No,  indeed  I w*  . 

Alice  turned  a second  time  upon  her  pillow  and  slept  again, 
while  Marian,  a good  deal  piqued  at  the  answer,  tormented 
herself  with  wondering  what  the  child  could  mean,  and  why 
she  disliked  Frederic  so  much.  The  next  morning  it  was 
Alice  who  awoke  Marian,  and  said : “Was  it  a dream,  or 

did  you  say  something  to  me  last  night  about  marrying 

Frederic  < 

For  a moment  Marian  forgot  that  the  sightless  eyes  turned 
so  inquiringly  toward  her  could  not  see,  and  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  to  hide  the  blushes  she  knew  were  burn- 

*n?<gav”  persisted  Alice,  “what  was  it?”  and  half  willingly, 
half  reluctantly,  Marian  told  of  the  strange  request  which 
Frederic  had  made,  saying  nothing,  however,  of  the  letter,  tor 
if  Col.  Raymond  had  done  her  a wrong,  she  felt  it  a duty  she 
owed  his  memory  to  keep  it  to  herself. 

When,  at  the  breakfast  table,  she  met  Frederic,  she  was 
ready  to  answer  his  question,  but  she  chose  to  let  him  broach 
the  subject,  and  this  he  did  that  evening  when  found  her 
alone  in  his  father’s  room.  He  had  decided  that  it  was  use- 
less to  struggle  with  his  fate,  and  he  resolved  to  make  the 


26 


MARIAN  GREY 


best  of  it.  How  far  Redstone  Hall,  bank  notes,  stock,  and 
real  estate  influenced  this  decision  we  cannot  say,  but  he  was 
sincere  in  his  intention  of  treating  Marian  well,  and  when 
he  found  her  by  accident  in  his  father’s  room,  he  said  to  her 
kindly : “Can  you  answer  me  now  ?” 

Marian  was  not  yet  enough  accustomed  to  the  world  to  con- 
ceal whatever  she  felt,  and  with  the  light  of  a new  happiness 
shining  on  her  childish  face,  she  went  up  to  him,  and  laying 
her  hand  confidingly  upon  his,  she  said : “I  will  marry  you 
Frederic,  if  you  wish  me  to.”  ’ 

A strange  enigma  is  human  nature.  When  the  previous 
night  she  had  hesitated  to  answer,  Frederic  was  conscious  of 
a vague  fear  that  she  might  say  no,  and  now  that  she  had 
said  yes,  he  felt  less  pleasure  than  pain,  for  the  die  he  knew 
was  cast.  A more  observing  eye  than  Marian’s  would  have 
seen  the  dark  shadow  which  flitted  over  his  face,  and  the 
sudden  paling  of  his  lips,  but  she  did  not;  she  only’ saw  how 
he  shook  oft  her  hand  without  even  so  much  as  touching  it. 

And  thus,  without  caress  or  word  of  love,  was  that  ill- 
starred  engagement  sealed,  forming  a striking  contrast  to  the 
one  which  years  after  took  place  within  that  large  room  and 
at  that  very  hour;  Frederic  knew  well  that  Marian  was  too 
much  of  a child  to  manage  the  affair,  and  after  his  interview 
with  her,  he  sought  out  Dinah,  to  whom  he  announced  his 
intentions. 

“There  is  no  need  of  delay,”  he  said,  “and  two  weeks  from 
today  is  the  time  appointed.  There  will  be  no  show — no 
parade — simply  a quiet  wedding  in  the  presence  of  a few 
friends,  who  will  dine  with  us,  of  course.  The  dinner  you 
must  see  to,  and  I will  attend  to  the  rest.” 

Meantime  Marian  was  confiding  to  Alice  the  story  of  her 
engagement,  and  wondering  if  Frederic  intended  taking  a 
bridal  tour.  She  hoped  he  did,  for  she  so  much  wished  to  see 
a little  of  the  world,  particularly  New  York,  of  which  she 
had  heard  such  glowing  accounts.  But  nothing  could  be  less 
in  accordance  with  Frederic’s  feelings  than  a bridal  tour,  and 
when  Marian  once  ventured  to  broach  the  subject,  he  said 
that  under  the  circumstances  it  would  hardly  be  right  to  go 
off  and  enjoy  themselves,  so  they  had  better  stay  quietly  at 
home.  And  this  settled  the  point,  for  Marian  never  thought 
of  questioning  his  decision.  If  they  made  no  journey,  she 
would  not  need  any  additions  to  her  wardrobe,  and  she  was 
thus  saved  from  the  trouble  which  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of 
brides.  Still  it  was  not  at  all  in  accordance  with  her  ideas—* 
this  marrying  without  a single  article  of  finery,  and  once  she 


MARIAN  GREY 


27 


resolved  to  indulge  m a ^TVSan*  hacTbeen  lavish  of  his 

M s X 

pose'of  surprising  Alice  and  the  blacks  with  handsome  Christ- 
mas  presents.  _ _„ac  p-reat  deal  of  talk,  and 

SnSes 

“Of  course  not— it  was  decided  years  ago,  when  Marian  first 

^And^o^amidf'thel^culations  of  friends,  the  gossip  of  Dinah, 
thfioyons  anticipations  of  Marian,  and  the  harrow.ng  donb.s 
r Frederic  the  two  weeks  passed  away,  bringing 
eventful  day  when  °Redstone  Hall  was  to  have  once  more  a 

mistress. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  BRIDAL  DAY 

“It  was  the  veriest  farce  in  the  world,  the  marriage  of 
Frederic  Raymond  with  a child  not  yet  sixteen  ; at  least  so 
said  Agnes  Gibson,  of  twenty-five,  and  so  said  sundry  other 
quests  who  at  the  appointed  hour  assembled  in  the  parlor  of 
Redstone  Hall  to  witness  the  sacrifice— not  of  Frederic,  as 
they  vainly  imagined,  but  of  the  unsuspecting  Marian. 

He  knew  what  he  did,  and  why  he  did  it,  while  she,  blind- 
folded, as  it  were,  was  about  to  leap  into  the  uncertain  future. 
No  such  gloomy  thoughts  as  these,  however,  intruded  them- 
selves upon  her  mind  as  she  stood  before  her  mirror  and  with 
trembling  fingers  made  her  simple  bridal  toilet.  When  first 
tire  idea  of  marrying  Frederic  was  suggested  to  her  nearly  as 
much  pride  as  love  had  mingled  in  her  thoughts,  for  Marian 
was  not  without  her  ambition,  and  the  honor  of  being  the  mis- 
tress of  Redstone  Hall  had  influenced  her  decision.  But  dur- 
ing the  two  weeks  since  her  engagement  her  heart  had  gone 
out  toward  him  with  a deep  absorbing  love,  and  ha.d  he  now 
been  the  poorest  man  in  the  world  and  she  a royal  princess,  she 
would  have  spurned  the  wealth  that  kept  her  from  him  or 
gladly  have  laid  it  at  his  feet  for  the  sake  of  staying  with  him 
and  knowing  that  he  wished  it.  And  this  was  the  girl  whom 
Frederic  Raymond  was  about  to  wrong  by  making  her  his 
wife,  when  he  knew  he  did  not  love  her.  But  she  should  never 
know  it,  he  said — should  never  suspect  that  nothing  but  his 
hand  and  name  went  with  the  words  he  was  so  soon  to  utter, 
and  he  determined  to  be  true  to  her  and  faithful  to  his  mar- 

Some  doubt  he  had  as  to  the  effect  his  father  s letter  might 
have  upon  her,  and  once  he  resolved  that  she  should  never  see 
it  • but  this  was  an  idle  thought,  not  to  be  harbored  for  a 
moment.  He  had  told  her  when  she  asked  him  for  it  the  last 
time  that  she  should  have  it  on  her  bridal  day;  for  so  his 
father  willed  it,  and  he  would  keep  his  word.  He  had  written 
to  Isabel  at  the  very  last,  for  though  he  was  not  bound  to  her 
by  any  promise  he  knew  an  explanation  of  his  conduct  was 
due  to  her,  and  he  forced  himself  to  write  it.  Not  a word  did 

Marian  Grey  29 


30 


MARIAN  GREY 


he  say  against  Marian,  but  he  gave  her  to  understand  that  but 
for  his  father  the  match  would  never  have  been  made — that 
circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  control  compelled  him 
to  do  what  he  was  doing.  He  should  never  forget  the 
pleasant  hours  spent  in  her  society,  he  raid,  and  he  closed  by 
asking  her  to  visit  the  future  Mrs.  Raymond  at  Redstone  Hall. 
It  cost  him  a bitter  struggle  to  write  thus  indifferently  to  one 
he  loved  so  well,  but  it  was  right,  he  said,  and  when  the  letter 
was  finished  he  felt  that  the  last  tie  which  bound  him  to 
Isabel  was  sundered,  and  there  was  nothing  for  him  now  but 
to  make  the  best  of  Marian.  So  when  on  their  bridal  morn- 
ing she  came  to  him  and  asked  his  wishes  concerning  her 
dress,  he  answered  her  very  kindly : “As  you  are  in  mourn- 

ing  you  had  better  make  no  change,  besides  I think  black  very 
becoming  to  your  fair  complexion.” 

T his  was  the  first  compliment  he  had  ever  paid  her,  and  her 
heart  thrilled  with  delight,  but  when,  as  she  was  leaving  the 
room,  he  called  her  back  and  said,  still  gently,  kindly:  “Would 
you  as  soon  wear  your  hair  plain  ? I do  not  quite  fancy  ring- 
lets/' her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  for  she  remembered  the  cork- 
screw curls,  and  glancing  in  the  mirror  at  her  wavy  hair,  she 
wished  it  were  possible  to  remedy  the  defect. 

“I  will  do  the  best  I can,”  she  said,  and  returning  to  her 
room,  she  commenced  her  operations,  but  it  was  a long,  tedious 
process,  the  combing  out  of  those  curls,  for  her  hair  was  tena- 
cious of  its  rights,  and  even  when  she  thought  it  subdued  and 
let  go  of  the  end,  it  rolled  up  about  her  forehead  in 
tight,  round  rings,  as  if  spurning  alike  both  water  and 
brush. 

Marian  went  on  with  her  task,  which  was  finished  at  last, 
and  her  luxuriant  hair  was  bound  at  the  back  of  her  head  in 
a large,  flat  knot.  The  effect  was  not  becoming,  and  she 
knew  it,  but  if  Frederic  liked  it  she  was  satisfied,  even  if 
Dinah  did  demur,  telling  her  she  looked  like  “a  cat  whose 
ears  had  been  boxed.”  Frederic  did  not  like  it,  but  after  the 
pains  she  had  taken  he  would  not  tell  her  so,  and  when  she 
said  to  him,  “I  am  ready,”  he  offered  her  his  arm  and  went 
silently  down  the  stairs  to  the  parlor,  where  guests  and  clergy- 
man were  waiting. 

Whether  it  was  the  newness  of  her  position,  or  a presenti- 
ment of  coming  evil,  Marian  could  not  tell,  but  into  her  heart 
there  crept  a chill  as  she  glanced  timidly  at  the  man  who  stood 
so  silently  beside  her,  and  thought,  “He  is  my  husband.”  It 
was,  indeed,  a somber  wedding — “more  like  a funeral,”  the 
guests  declared,  as  immediately  after  dinner  they  took  their 


MARIAN  GREY 


31 


W^Tand  commentecTupon  the  affair  as  people  always  will 

S s 

wTth  him  and  Marian  was  his  wife.  Turn  which  way  he 
l-t  tjj’e  reality  was  the  same,  and  with  an  intense  loat  - 
i^rfhtadf  and  a deep  pity  for  her.  he  ^ 

Osss  ss  res 

-when  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  parlor  and  Alice  had 
, o m^ionate  cood  night  in  her  arms  and  gone  to 

S.“he Sh5S.ffi  letter.  She  would  read  it  now. 
She  had  complied  with  all  the  stipulations,  and  theie  was  no 
fon-er  a Tason  why  it  should  be  withheld.  She  went  to 
Frederic’s  door ; but  he  was  not  there,  and  a servant  pass'ng 
in  the  hall  said  he  had  returned  to  the  parlor  while  she  was 
busy  with  Alice.  So  to  the  parlor  Marian  went  finding  him 
sitting  unemployed  and  wrapped  m gloomy  thought.  He  he 
her  steo  unoii  the  carpet,  but  standing  in  the  shadow  as  she 
did  she  could  not  see  the  look  of  pain  which  flitted  over  his 

‘“•Frlderic  "T’Sd.  “I  may  read  the  letter  now-will  you 

^ * VM ech  ani  cal  1 y he  did  as  she  desired,  and  then  with  a slightly 
uneasy  feeling  as  to  the  effect  the  letter  might  have  upon  her 
he  vvent  back  to  his  reflections,  while  she  started  to  leave  the 
room  When  she  reached  the  door  she  paused  a moment 
look  back.  In  giving  her  the  key  he  had  changed Ais  posi  .on 
and  she  could  see  the  suffering  expression  on  his » white  face. 
Quickly  returning  to  his  side,  she  said,  anxiously,  A > 

“^Nothing  but  a headache.  You  know  I am  accustomed  to 

*hMari?nrhe'sttaied  a moment-then  parting  the  damp,  brown 
hair  from  off  his  forehead,  she  kissed  him  timidly  and  left  the 
room.  Involuntarily  Frederic  raised  his  hand  to  wipe  the  spot 
away,  but  something  stayed  the  act  and  whispered  to  him  th<>t 


32 


MARIAN  GREY 


a wife’s  first  kiss  was  a holy  thing  and  could  never  be  re- 
pcEted. 

Through  the  hall  the  nimble  feet  of  Marian  sped  until  she 
stood  within  her  late  guardian's  room,  and  there  she  stopped 
u atmosphere  seemed  oppressive  and  laden  with  terror' 
i 11  TiS  *?ec^use  s so  dark,”  siie  said,  and  going  out  into  the 
nail,  she  took  a lamp  from  the  table  and  then  returned 

But  the  olden  feeling  was  with  her  still— a feeling  as  if  she 
were  treading  some  fearful  gulf,  and  she  was  half  tempted 
to  turn  back  even  now  and  ask  Frederic  to  come  with  her 
while  she  read  the  letter. 

^ riot  be  so  foolish,  though,”  she  said,  and  opening  the 
library  door,  she  walked  boldly  in— but  the  same  Marian  who 
entered  there  never  came  out  again ! 

Oh,  how  still  it  was  in  that  room,  and  the  click  of  the  key  as 
it  turned  the  slender  bolt  echoed  through  the  silent  apartment 
causing  Marian  to  start  as  if  a living  presence  had  been  near 
the  drawer  was  opened,  and  she  held  the  letter  in  her  hand' 
while  unseen  voices  seemed  whispering  to  her : “Oh,  Marian 
Marian  leave  the  letter  still  untouched.  Do  not  seek  to 
know  the  secret  it  contains,  but  go  back  to  the  man  who  is 
y.ou!r  husband,  and  by  those  gentle  acts  which  seldom  fail  in 
their  effect,  win  his  love.  It  will  be  far  more  precious  to  you 

heire  ! wea^  which  you  are  the  unsuspecting 

But  Marian  did  not  understand — nor  know  why  it  was  she 
trembled  so.  She  only  knew  she  had  the  letter  in  her  hand— 
her  letter— the  one  left  by  her  guardian.  It  bore  no  super- 
scription, but  it  was  for  her,  of  course,  and  fixing  herself  in 
a comfortable  position,  she  broke  the  seal  and  read : 

“My  dear  child:” 


There  was  nothing  in  those  three  words  suggestive  of  a 
mistake,  and  Marian  read  on  till,  with  a quick,  nervous  start 
she  glanced  forward,  then  backward,  and  then  read  on  and  on’ 
until  at  last  not  even  the  fear  of  death  itself  could  have 
stopped  her  from  that  reading.  That  letter  was  never  in- 
tended for  her  eye— she  knew  that  now,  but  had  the  cold  hand 
of  her  guardian  been  interposed  to  wrest  it  from  her,  she 
would  have  held  it  fast  until  she  learned  the  whole.  Like 
coals  of  living  fire  the  words  burned  into  her  soul,  scorch- 
ing, blistering  as  they  burned,  and  when  the  letter  was  fin- 
ished she  fell  upon  her  face  with  a cry  so  full  of  agony  and 
horror  that  Frederic,  in  the  parlor,  heard  the  wail  of  human 
anguish,  and  started  to  his  feet,  wondering  whence  it  came. 

With  the  setting  of  the  sun  the  November  wind  had  risen,' 


MARIAN  GREY 


38 


and  as  the  young  man  listened,  it  swept  moaning  past  the 
window  seeming  not  unlike  the  sound  he  had  first  heard, 
was  the’ wind,”  he  said,  and  he  resumed  his  seat,  while,  in  that 
httL  room,  not  very  far  away,  poor  Marian came  back  £ 
consciousness,  and  crouching  on  the  floor  Pr W £?*  de! 
mio-ht  die.  She  understood  it  now— how  she  had  been  de 
ceived  betrayed,  and  cruelly  wronged.  She  knew,  too,  that 
she  was  the  heiress  of  untold  wealth,  and  for  a single  moment 
her  heart  beat  with  a gratified  pride,  but  the  surprise  was  too 
Seat  to  be  realized  at  once,  and  the  feeling  was  so  absorbed 
?n  the  reason  why  Frederic  Raymond  had  made  her  his  wjfe 
It  was  not  herself  he  had  married,  but  her  fortune  her 
mnnev Redstone  Hall.  She  was  merely  a necessary  incum- 

brance which  he  would  rather  should  have  been  omitted  in 
the  bargain.  The  thought  was  maddening,  and,  stretching  o 
her  arms,  she  asked  again  that  she  might  die. 

“Oh,  why  didn’t  he  come  to  me,  she  cried,  and  tell  me . i 
would  gladly  have  given  him  half  my  fortune— yes,  all— all 
rather  than  to  be  the  wretched  thing  I am;  and  he  would  have 

been  free  to  love  and  marry  this  , 

She  could  not  at  first  speak  the  name  of  her  rival,  but  she 
said  it  at  last,  and  the  sound  of  it  wrung  her  heart  with  a new 
and  torturing  pain.  She  had  never  heard  of  Isabel  Hunting- 
ton  before,  and  as  she  thought  how  beautiful  and  grand  she 
was  she  whispered  to  herself : “Why  didn’t  he  go  back  to  her 
and’ leave  me,  ‘the  red-headed  fright,’  alone.  Yes,  that  was 
what  he  wrote  to  his  father.  Let  me  look  at  it  again,  and 
the  tone  of  her  voice  was  bitter  and  the  expression  of  her  face 
hard  Sd  stony  as  taking  up  the  letter  she  read  foMhe  second 
time  that  “she  was  uncouth,  uneducated,  and  ugly  anf  11  h .s 
father  did  not  give  up  that  foolish  fancy,  Frederic  wou  post- 
tively  “hate  the  red-headed  fright.  Her  guardian  had  not 
given  up  the  foolish  fancy,  consequently  there  was  but  one 

inference  to  be  drawn.  ^ „ , . , , 

In  her  excitement  she  did  not  consider  that  Frederic  h 
probably  written  of  her  harsher  things  than  he  really  meant. 
She  only  thought:  “He  loathes  me-he  despises  me-he 

wishes  I was  dead — and  I dared  to  kiss  him,  too,  she  adde  • 
“How  he  hated  me  for  that,  but  ’twas  the  first,  and  it  shall  be 
the  last,  for  I will  go  away  forever  and  leave  him  Redstone 
Hall,  the  bride  he  married  a few  hours  ago,  and  laying  h 
face  upon  the  chair  Marian  thought  long  and  earnestly  of  the 
future.  She  had  come  into  that  room  a happy,  simple-hearted 
confiding  child,  but  she  had  lived  years  since,  and  she  sat  there 
now  a crushed,  but  self-reliant  woman,  ready  to  go  out  and 


34 


MARIAN  GREY 


contend  with  the  world  alone.  Gradually  her  thoughts  and 
purposes  took  a definite  form.  She  was  ignorant  of  the  knotty 
points  of  law,  and  she  did  not  know  but  Frederic  could  get 
her  a divorce,  but  from  this  publicity  she  shrank.  She  could 
not  be  pointed  at  as  a discarded  wife.  She  would  rather  go 
away  where  Frederic  would  never  see  nor  hear  of  her  again, 
and  she  fancied  that  by  so  doing  he  would,  after  a time,  at 
least,  be  free  to  marry  Isabel.  She  had  not  wept  before,  'for 
her  tears  seemed  scorched  with  pain,  but  at  the  thought  of 
another  coming  there  to  take  the  place  she  had  hoped  to  fill, 
they  rained  in  torrents  over  her  white  face,  and  clasping  her 
little  hands  convulsively  together,  she  cried:  “How  can  I 

give  him  up,  when  I love  him  so  much — so  much  ?” 

Gradually  there  stole  over  her  the  noble,  unselfish  thought 
that  because  she  loved  him  so  much  she  would  willingly  sacri- 
fice herself  and  all  she  had  for  the  sake  of  making  him  happy, 
and  then  she  grew  calm  again  and  began  to  decide  where  she 
would  go.  Instinctively  her  mind  turned  toward  New  York 
City  as  the  great  hiding  place  from  the  world.  Mrs.  Burt,  the 
woman  who  had  lived  with  them  in  Yonkers  and  who  had  al- 
ways been  so  kind  to  her,  was  in  New  York  she  knew,  for  she 
had  written  to  Col.  Raymond  not  long  before  his  death,  ask- 
ing if  there  was  anything  in  Kentucky  for  her  son  Ben  to  do. 
This  letter  her  guardian  had  answered  and  then  destroyed 
with  many  others,  which  he  said  were  of  no  consequence,  and 
only  lumbered  up  his  drawer.  Consequently  there  was  no 
possibility  that  this  letter  would  suggest  Mrs.  Burt  to  Fred- 
eric, who  had  never  seen  her,  she  having  come  and  gone  while 
he  was  away  at  school,  and  thus  far  the  project  was  a safe 
one.  But  her  name — she  might  sometime  be  recognized  by 
that,  and  remembering  that  her  mother's  maiden  name  was 
Mary  Grey,  and  that  Frederic,  even  if  he  had  ever  known  it, 
which  was  doubtful,  had  probably  forgotten  it,  she  resolved 
upon  being  henceforth  Marian  Grey,  and  she  repeated  it 
aloud,  feeling  the  while  that  the  change  was  well,  for  she  was 
no  longer  the  same  girl  she  used  to  know  as  Marian  Lindsey. 
Once  she  said  softly  to  herself,  “Marian  Raymond,”  but  the 
sound  grated  harshly,  for  she  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to 
bear  that  name. 

This  settled,  she  turned  her  thoughts  upon  the  means  by 
which  New  York  was  to  be  reached,  and  she  was  glad  that 
she  had  not  bought  the  dress,  for  now  she  had  no  funds  with 
which  to  meet  the  expense,  and  she  would  go  that  very  night, 
before  her  resolution  left  her.  Redstone  Hall  was  only  two 
miles  from  the  station,  and  as  the  evening  train  passed  at 


MARIAN  GREY 


35 


a farewell  letter,  too,  to  ire  , willingly  gave  him 

though  .it  brote  h«h«r  to  < lo  tyte  w SJ  gwas  gone 
everything,  and  hoped  he  warn  t*  nappy  desolatiorl)  and  so 
forever.  Marian  was  beautiful  then  m her  gso^  ^ 

Frederic  Raymond  would  have  saia,  shining  in  her 

with  the  light  of  her  noble jf«Se^»  » hSr  Se  The 

S ElSf  E?S  -X*j£ 

real  it  a cty  of 

despair  wrung  from  a fainting  heart. 

£2*  HahE”r?whSe 

reading  this  i snau  nut.  better  you  should  not. 

Your  "father’s^etter^hich^was  ^ntended^for  ^°j your 

me  so  cruelly,  h y mij  bave  aiven  you  more 

thantalifand'XenTou  brought  that  beautiful  Isabel  home  I 

ii-saissssss 

fkSd  you,  too.  Forgive  me  ^ t^Frefa^ 

didn’t  know  then  how  you  hated  me.  ; t me?  If  I 

your  forehead,  can’t  you,  and  dont  lay  it : up against  m • 

YouTmarry  her  at  a suitable  rime  and  when  yoj>  ^e  liow 
well  she  becomes  your  home,  you  will  be  glad  I went  away 

If  you  must,  tell  her  of  me,  and  ^ S^PP°®,  often  but 

kindly  of  me,  won’t  you?  You  needn’t  talk  of  me  often,  but 


36 


MARIAN  GREY 


sometimes,  when  you  are  all  alone,  and  you  are  sure  she  will 
not  know,  think  of  poor  little  Marian,  who  gave  her  life  away 
that  one  she  loved  the  best  in  all  the  world  might  have  wealth 
and  happiness. 

“Farewell,  Frederic— farewell.  Death  itself  cannot  be 
harder  than  bidding  you  good-by  and  knowing  it  is  forever/' 

And  well  might  Marian  say  this*  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  dipped  her  pen  in  her  very  heart's  blood  when  she  wrote 
that  last  adieu.  She  folded  up  the  letter  and  directed  it  to 
Frederic,  then,  taking  another  sheet,  she  wrote  to  the  blind 
girl : 

“Dearest  Alice: 

“Precious  little  Alice : If  my  heart  was  not  already  broken, 
it  would  break  at  leaving  you.  Don't  mourn  for  me  much, 
darling.  Tell  Dinah  and  Hetty  and  the  other  blacks  not  to 
cry,  and  if  I've  ever  been  cross  to  them,  they  must  forget  it, 
now  that  I am  gone.  God  bless  you  all.  Good-by— good-by." 

The  letters  finished,  she  left  them  upon  the  desk  where  they 
could  not  help  being  seen  by  the  first  one  who  should  enter, 
then,  stealing  up  the  stairs  to  the  closet  at  the  extreme  of  the 
hall  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  veil,  and  shawl,  and  started  for  her 
purse  which  was  in  the  chamber  where  Alice  slept.  Careful, 
very  careful  were  her  footsteps  now,  lest  she  waken  the  child," 
who,  having  cried  herself  to  sleep,  was  resting  quietly.  The 
purse  was  obtained,  as  was  also  a photograph  of  her  guardian 
which  lay  in  the  same  drawer,  and  then  for  a moment  she 
stood  gazing  at  the  little  blind  girl  and  longing  to  give  her  one 
more  kiss,  but  she  dared  not,  and  glancing  hurriedly  around 
the  room,  which  had  been  hers  so  long,  she  hastened  down  the 
stairs  and  out  upon  the  piazza.  She  could  see  the  light  from 
the  parlor  window  streaming  out  into  the  darkness,  and  draw- 
ing near  she  looked  through  blinding  tears  upon  the  solitary 
man,  who,  sitting  there  alone,  little  dreamed  of  the  whispered 
blessings  breathed  for  him  but  a few  yards  away.  It  seemed 
to  Marian  in  that  moment  of  agony  that  her  very  life  was  go- 
ing out,  and  she  leaned  against  the  pillar  to  keep  herself  from 
falling. 

“Oh,  can  I leave  him?"  she  thought.  “Can  I go  away  for- 
ever, and  never  see  his  face  again  or  listen  to  his  voice  ?"  and 
looking  up  into  the  sky  she  prayed  that  if  in  heaven  they 
should  meet  again,  he  might  know  and  love  her  there  for  what 
she  suffered  here. 

On  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  near  by  there  was  a 
rustling  sound  as  if  someone  was  coming,  and  Marian  drew 


MARIAN  GREY 


37 


he  came  tearSg  up  the  walk,  and,  with  a low,  savage  growl, 

?3M££3%  K tsfffiiSSMS  tearful 
and  £ 

avenue  followed  by  Brun  ^ Mar}an  stamped  her  little 

driven  back.  It  was  au  , v necb  bidding  him  re- 

foot,  wound  her  arms  quite  as  expressive 

turn ; he  only  answered  wi  * j.je  knew  Marian  had 

of  obstinacy  as  words  co,uff  ^'of  the  night,  and,  with 

and  handkerc  , after  vainly  attempting  to  make 

mmmm. 

todVgone™and  ittering  low,  plaintive  howls  when  he  saw  she 
diM"”me  Marian  kept  on  her  way  striking  out  intone 

SSStffi 

mmmm 

lest  she  should  be  recognized,  or  at  least  ^ haJTever 

hered  But  her  fears  were  vain,  for  no  one  there  na 
seen  or  heard  of  her,  and  in  a moment  more  the  tram  was 
moving  on,  and  she,  heart-broken  and  alone,  was  taking 
bridal  tour ! 


CHAPTER  V 


the  alarm 

Ed  the  whistle  of  the 
exclaimed ; “I’ll  80 

grSg  topSS,  fell  upon  her  ear  and  arrested  her  move- 

m ‘‘What  can  ail  the  critter,”  she  said;  “and  he’s  down  on  the 

^The  other  ne^roeT  also  heard  the  cry,  which  was  succeeded 
by  another,  and  another,  and  became  at  last  one  pro  onged  ye  h 
wh^rh  echoed  down  the  river  and  over  the  hills,  start  & 
Frederic  from  his  deep  reverie  and  bringing  him  to  the  piazza, 
where  the  blacks  had  assembled  m a body.  . 

“’Soects  mebby  Bruno’s  done  cotched  somethin  or  some- 
body down  thar/^suggested  Philip,  the  most  courageous  of  the 

gr°SuoDose  you  go  see,”  said  Frederic,  and  lighting  his  old 
lantern  Philip  saflied  out,  followed  ere  long  by  all^com- 
rades,  who,  by  accusing  each  other  of  being 

bounded  upon  Phil,  upsetting  the  old  man  and  ext”^ul  | 
the  light  so  that  they  were  in  total  darkness.  1 he  '’f' 
handkerchief,  however,  caught  Dinah’s  eye,  and  m pic^  g 
nn  she  also  felt  the  glove,  which  was  lying  near  it.  But  B 
dfcl  not  explain  the  mystery,  and  after  searching o1^Ja|n  °r 
man,  beast,  or  hobgoblin,  the  party  returned  to  the  house, 
where  their  master  awaited  them.  . „ 

“Thar  wasn’t  nothing  thar,  ’cept  this  yer  rag  and  glove, 
said  Dinah,  passing  the  articles  to  him. 

Marian  Grey  39 


40 


MARIAN  GREY 


He  took  them,  and  passing  to  the  light  saw  the  name  upon 
the  handkerchief,  “Marian  Lindsey."  The  glove,  too,  he  rec- 
ognized as  belonging  to  her,  and  with  a vague  fear  of  im- 
pending evil,  he  asked  where  they  found  them. 

“On  the  bridge/'  answered  Dinah;  “somebody  must  have 
dropped  'em.  That  handkercher  looks  mighty  like  Miss 
Marian's  hemstitched  one." 

. “ft  is  hers’”  returned  Frederic;  “do  you  know  where  she 
is  r 

“Tou  is  the  one  who  orto  know  that,  I reckon,"  answered 
Dinah,  adding  that  “she  hadn't  seen  her  sence  jest  after  dark 
when  she  went  upstairs  with  Alice." 

Frederic  was  interested  now.  In  his  abstraction  he  had  not 
heeded  the  lapse  of  time,  though  he  wondered  where  Marian 
was,  and  once  feeling  anxious  to  know  what  she  would  say  to 
the  letter,  he  was  tempted  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  But  he  did 
not,  and  now,  with  a presentiment  that  all  was  not  right,  he 
went  to  Alice’s  chamber,  but  found  no  Marian  there.  Neither 
was  she  in  any  of  the  chambers,  nor  in  the  hall,  nor  in  the 
dining  room,  nor  in  his  father's  room,  and  he  stood  at  last  in 
the  library  door.  The  writing  desk  was  open,  and  on  it  lay 
three  letters,  one  for  Alice,  one  for  him,  the  other  undirected. 
With  a beating  heart  he  took  the  one  intended  for  himself,  and 
tearing  it  open,  read  it  through.  When  Marian  wrote  that 
“she  gave  her  life  away,"  she  had  no  thought  of  deceiving 
him,  for  her  giving  him  up  was  giving  her  very  life.  But  he 
did  not  so  understand  it,  and  sinking  into  a chair,  he  gasped, 
“Great  Heaven,  Marian  is  dead!"  while  his  face  grew  livid 
and  his  heart  sick  with  the  horrid  fear. 

“Dead,  Marster  Frederic,"  shrieked  old  Dinah,  “who  dare 
tell  me  my  chile  is  dead !"  and  bounding  forward  like  a tiger, 
she  grasped  the  arm  of  the  wretched  man,  exclaiming,  “whar 
is  she  dead  ? and  what  is  she  dead  for  ? and  what's  that  she's 
writ  that  makes  your  face  as  white  as  a piece  of  paper  ? R6ad 
and  let  us  hear !" 

“I  can't,  I can't!"  moaned  the  stricken  man;  “Oh,  has  it 
come  to  this  ? Marian,  Marian — won't  somebody  bring  her 
back  ?" 

“If  marster'll  tell  me  whar  to  look,  I'll  find  her,  so  help  me, 
Lord,  said  Uncle  Phil,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  dusky 
cheeks. 

“You  found  her  handkerchief  upon  the  bridge,"  returned 
Frederic,  “and  Bruno  has  been  howling  there — don't  you  see? 
She's  in  the  river ! She's  drowned ! Oh,  Marian — poor 
Marian,  I've  killed  her,  but  God  knows  I did  not  mean  to"; 


MARIAN  GREY 


41 


SS“  t * sh' “ “Sdd  K:  The  howed  man. 

It  was  a striking  group  assembled  me  hand 

convulsed  with  strong  emotmn  and  The  blacks 

the  letter  which  had  don • *ebiS  and  all  petrified  with 
gathered  around,  some  w P & « 1 storm  was  at  its 

terror,  while  into  their  \?t  hair  falling 

height  the  little  Alice  groped  her  > rolling  around  the 
»™r  cTch  »rSo»„d  which 

-*•  — * 

‘^eBigg^you^honejh^ Mis^Marian^ dead  drownded,”  said 
that  he  was  the  one’ who  need ed  most  sy ’^thy^  head>  a„d, 

“ ’Tain’t  no  way  to  stand  here  like  rocks,  said  uncie s rmt 
last  ‘ If  Miss  Marian  is  in  the  river,  weM  better  be  a fish  n 
her  out,”  and  the  practical  negro  proceeded  to  make  the  neces 

Thus  appealed  to,  Freder.c  answered  Sh e say m m 

letter  that  she’s  going  away  fo™™r  <h«  SM  sha 

WSe?S«SfseichS  &e?d°edy“nd  utterly  regardless 


42 


MARIAN  GREY 


which  must  have  filled  poor  Marian’s  heart  and  maddened  her 
brain  ere  she  sought  that  watery  grave. 

Before  coming  out  he  had  hurriedly  read  his  father’s  letter 
and  he  could  well  understand  how  its  contents  broke  the  heart 
of  the  wretched  girl,  and  drove  her  to  the  desperate  act  which 
he^beheved  she  had  committed. 

,u  Marian,”  he  whispered  to  himself,  as  he  stood  upon 

the  budge,  I alone  am  the  cause  of  your  sad  death”:  and 
most  gladly  would  he  then  have  become  a beggar  and  earned 
his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  could  she  have  come  back 

before  *U  °f  ^ °f  heaIth  and  hope>  iust  ^ she  was  the  day 


But  this  could  not  be,  for  she  was  dead,  he  said,  dead  be- 
yond a doubt,  and  all  there  remained  for  him  to  do  was  to  find 
her  body  and  lay  it  beside  his  father.  So  during  that  day  the 
search  went  on,  and  crowds  of  people  were  gathered  on  each 
side  of  the  river,  but  no  trace  of  the  lost  one  could  be  found 
and  when  a second  time  the  night  fell  dark  and  heavy  around 
Kedstone  Hall,  it  found  a mournful  group  assembled  there. 

• ^ay  day  went  by,  during  which  the  search  was  con- 
tinued at  intervals,  and  always  with  the  same  result,  until 
when  a week  was  gone  and  there  was  still  no  trace  of  her 
found,  people  began  to  suggest  that  she  was  not  in  the  river 
at  all,  but  had  gone  off  in  another  direction.  Frederic  how- 
ever, was  incredulous— she  had  no  money  that  he  or  anyone 
else  knew  of,  or  at  least  but  very  little.  She  had  never  been 
away  from  home  alone,  and  if  she  had  done  so  now,  somebody 
would  have  seen  her  ere  this,  and  suspected  who  it  was,  for 
the  papers  far  and  near  teemed  with  the  strange  event,  each 
editor  commenting  upon  its  cause  according  to  his  own  'ideas, 
and  all  uniting  in  censuring  the  husband,  who  at  last  was  de- 
scribed as  a cruel,  unfeeling  wretch,  capable  of  driving  any 
woman  from  his  house,  particularly  one  as  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished as  the  unfortunate  bride!  It  was  in  vain  that 
Frederic  winced  under  the  annoyance  he  could  not  help  him- 
self, and  the  story  went  the  rounds,  improving  with  each  repe- 
tition, until  at  last  an  Oregon  weekly  outdid  all  the  rest  by 
publishing  the  tale  under  the  heading  of  “Supposed  Horrible 
Murder.”  So  much  for  newspaper  paragraphs. 

Meantime  Frederic,  too,  inserted  in  the  papers  advertise- 
ments for  the  lost  one,  without  any  expectation,  however,  that 
they  would  bring  her  back.  To  him  she  was  dead,  even  though 
her  body  could  not  be  found.  There  might  be  deep,  unfathom- 
able sink-holes  in  the  river,  he  said,  anu  into  one  of  these  she 
had  fallen,  and  so,  with  a crushing  \yeight  upon  his  spirits  and 


MARIAN  GREY 


43 


£nsheWwas  talkijof  visLg  he,-  mothers  Jalf^her,  who 
lived  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  and  he  said  to  her.  11 ,? 

SsifSfSi 

there  in  his  desolate  home  br °,°J g ^ the  future,  which 
forget  the  present  and  ^ Marfan  haunted  him 

S JlyWj.  V— „ ^r^rTry  whVsile 

was  nothing  without  Marian.  i.„  Viitri  what 

And  now  with  these  influences  at  work  to  ma  «i 

he  ough"  to  b^we  leave  him  a while  in  his  sorrow  and  follow 

the  fugitive  bride. 


CHAPTER  VI 


MARIAN 

Onward  and  onward— faster  and  faster-fiew  the  night  ex- 
cross  and  the  wishes  of  nearly  all  the  passengers  kept  pace 
with  the  speed  One  there  was,  however,  a pale-faced,  blue- 
led  girl  who  dreaded  the  time  when  the  cars  would  reach 

£ SJi’Sid s " s 

thS  everybody  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  asked  her  where  she 
wkhed  to  go  until  now  the  last  dreadful  change  was  made, 
the  blue  Hudson  was  crossed,  Albany  was  far  behind  and  s e 
was^fast  nearing  New  York.  Nisht  and  day  sh« , had  trave  .d 
always  with  the  same  dull,  dreary  sense  of  pam— the  same 
idea  that  to  her  the  world  would  never  be  pleasant— the  sun 
shine  bright,  or  the  flowers  sweet  again  Nervously  she 
shrank  from  observation,  and  once  when i ; ^nd 
who  saw  that  she  was  weeping,  touched  her  shoulder  ana 
said  “What  is  the  matter,  little  girl  ?”  she  started  with  fear, 
but  did  not  answer  until  the  question  was  repeated— then  she 
replied,  j'Oh,  I’m  so  tired  and  sick,  and  the  cars  make  such 

a Theei'ady  was  greatly  interested  in  the  child,  as  she  thought 
her  and  had  she  been  going  to  New  York  would  have  still 
befriended  her,  but  she  left  at  Newburgh  and  Marian  was 
acrain  alone.  She  had  heard  much  of  New  York,  but  she  had 
no  conception  of  it,  and  when  at  last  she  was  there,  and 
followed  a group  through  the  depot  up  to  Broadway,  her  head 
grew  dizzy  and  her  brain  whirled  with  the  deafening  roai. 
Cincinnati!  Louisville,  Buffalo  and  Albany  combined  were 
nothing  to  this,  and  in  her  confusion  she  would  have  fallen 
upon  the  pavement  had  not  the  crowd  forced  her  along.  Once, 
as  a richly  dressed  young  lady  brushed  past  her,  she  raise 
her  eyes  and  meekly  asked  where  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  live  . 

The  question  was  too  preposterous  to  be  heeded,  even  it  it 
were  heard,  and  the  lady  moved  on,  leaving-  Marian  as  ignor- 
ant as  ever  of  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt’s  whereabouts.  To  three  or 
four  other  ladies  the  same  question  was  put  but  Mrs.  JJamel 
Burt  was  evidently  not  generally  known  in  New  York,  tor  no 
one  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  her. 

Marian  Grey  45 


46 


MARIAN  GREY 


Poor  Marian!  she  knew  but  little  of  the  great  Babylon  to 
which  she  had  come,  and  she  thought  it  made  up  of  carts, 
hacks,  omnibuses,  and  people,  all  hurrying  in  every  direction 
as  fast  as  they  could  go.  It  made  her  feel  dizzy  and  cross- 
eyed to  look  at  them,  and  leaning  back  against  an  iron  railing, 
she  fell  into  a kind  of  conscious  sleep,  in  which  she  never 
forgot  for  an  instant  the  roar  which  troubled  her  so  much,  or 
lost  the  gnawing  pain  at  her  heart.  In  this  way  she  sat  for 
a long  time,  while  hundreds  of  people  went  by,  some  glancing 
sideways  at  her,  and  thinking  she  did  not  look  like  an  ordinary 
beggar,  while  others  did  not  notice  her  at  all. 

At  last,  as  the  confusion  increased,  she  roused  up,  staring 
about  her  with  a wild,  startled  gaze.  People  were  going  home, 
and  she  watched  them  as  they  struggled  fiercely  and  ineffect- 
ually to  stop  some  loaded  omnibus,  and  then  rushed  higher 
up  to  a more  favorable  locality. 

She  had  no  idea  of  the  lapse  of  time,  and  she  fancied  that 
it  might  be  coming  night,  when  a thought  stole  over  her, 
‘What  shall  I do,  then?” 

And  while  she  sat  there  thus,  the  night  shadows  began  to 
fall — the  people  walked  faster  and  faster — the  omnibus  drivers 
swore  louder  and  louder — the  crowd  became  greater  and 
greater — and  over  Marian  there  stole  a horrid  dread  of  the 
hour  when  the  uproar  would  cease;  when  the  streets  would 
be  empty,  the  folks  all  gone,  and  she  be  there  alone  with  the 
blear-eyed  old  woman  who  had  seated  herself  near  by,  and 
seemed  to  be  watching  her. 

“I  will  ask  once  more,”  she  thought.  “Maybe  some  of  these 
people  knows  where  she  lives.”  And,  throwing  back  her  veil, 
she  half  rose  to  her  feet,  when  a tall,  disagreeable-looking 
fellow  bent  over  her  and  said:  “What  can  I do  for  you, 

my  pretty  lass  ?” 

For  an  instant  Marian's  heart  stood  still,  for  there  was 
something  in  the  rowdy's  appearance  exceedingly  repulsive, 
but  when  he  repeated  his  question,  she  answered  timidly,  “I 
want  to  find  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt.” 

“Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt.  I know  the  old  lady  well — 
lives  just  round  the  corner.  Come  with  me  and  I’ll  show  you 
the  way,”  and  the  great  red,  rough  hand  was  about  to  touch 
the  little  slender  white  one  resting  on  Marian's  lap,  when  a 
blow  from  a brawny  fist  sent  the  rascal  reeling  upon  the 
pavement,  while  a round,  good-humored  face  looked  into 
Marian's,  and  a kindly  voice  said,  “Did  the  villain  insult  you, 
little  girl?” 

“Yes — I reckon  not — I don't  know,”  answered  Marian  trem- 


MARIAN  GREY 


47 


bline  with  fright,  while  her  companion  continued:  Tis  the 

first  time  he  ever  spoke  civil  to  a woman,  then.  I know  Lie 
scamp  well— but  what  are  you  siftin'  here  alone  for  when 

everybody  else  is  goin’ hum?”  , . 

Marian  felt  intuitively  that  he  could  be  trusted,  and  she 
sobbed  aloud:  “1  haven’t  any  home,  nor  friends,  nor  any- 

“Great  Moses !”  said  the  young  man,  scanning  her  closely, 
“you  ain’t  a beggar— that’s  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Ben  Burt 

and  why  are  you  sittin’ here  for,  anyway?  , 

Marian  did  not  heed  his  question,  so  eagerly  did  she  catch 

at  the  name  mentioned.  . „ . „„„ 

“Oh,  sir,”  she  exclaimed,  grasping  his  arm;  ,a[e  y°u  an^ 
relation  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  who  once  lived  with  the  Kay- 

monds  at  Yonkers  ?”  , , , . . , , 

“Well  ra-ally,  I don’t  know,”  answered  the  honest-hearted 
Yankee/  “And  if  this  don’t  beat  all.  I wouldn’t  wonder  it  I 
was  once  connected  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  bein’  die  brung  me 
up  from  a little  shaver,  and  has  licked  me  morn  a hundred 
times.  She’s  my  mother,  and  if  it’s  her  you  re  looking  for,  we 
may  as  well  be  traveling  for  she  lives  all  of  three  miles  from 
here  ” 

“Three  miles,”  repeated  Marian,  “that  other  man  said  just 
around  the  corner.  What  made  him  tell  such  a lie. 

“You  tell,”  answered  Ben,  with  a knowing  wink,  which, 
however,  failed  to  enlighten  Marian,  who  was  too  glad  at 
having  found  a protector  to  ask  any  questions,  and  unhesitat- 
ingly taking  Ben’s  offered  arm,  she  went  with  him  up  the 
street,  until  he  found  the  car  he  wished  to  take.  # 

When  they  were  comfortably  seated  and  she  had  leisure  to 
examine  him  more  closely,  she  found  him  to  be  a tall,  athletic, 
good-natured  looking  young  man,  betraying  but  little  refine- 
ment either  in  personal  appearance  or  manner,  but  manifest- 
ing in  all  he  did  a kind,  noble  heart,  which  won  her  good 
opinion  at  once.  Greatly  he  wondered  who  she  was  and 
whence  she  came,  but  he  refrained  asking  her  any  questions, 
thinking  he  should  know  the  whole  if  he  waited.  It  seemed 
to  Marian  a long,  long  ride,  and  she  was  beginning  to  wonder 
if  it  would  ever  end,  when  Ben  touched  her  arm  and  signified 
that  they  were  to  alight.  , , , „ 

“Come  right  clown  this  street  a rod  or  so,  and  we  re  there, 
said  he,  and  following  whither  he  led,  Marian  was  soon  climb- 
ing a long,  narrow  stairway  to  the  third  story  of  what  seemed 
to  her  a not  very  pleasant  block  of  buildings. 

But  if  it  were  dreary  without,  the  sight  of  a cheerful  blaz- 


48 


MARIAN  GREY 


ing  fire,  which  was  disclosed  to  view  as  Ben  opened  a narrow 
door,  raised  her  spirits  at  once,  and  taking  in  at  a glance  the 
tidy  rag-carpet,  the  stuffed  rocking-chairs,  the  chintz-covered 
lounge,  the  neat  looking  supper  table  spread  for  two,  and 
the  neater  looking  woman  who  was  making  the  toast, 
she  felt  the  pain  at  her  heart  give  way  a little,  just  a little, 
and  bounding  toward  the  woman,  she  cried:  “You  don’t  know 
me,  I suppose.  I am  little  Marian  Lindsey,  Col.  Raymond’s 
ward.” 

Mrs.  Burt,  for  it  was  she,  came  near  dropping  her  plate  of 
buttered  toast  in  her  surprise,  and  setting  it  down  upon  the 
hearth,  she  exclaimed:  “The  last  person  upon  earth  I ex- 

pected to  see.  Where  did  you  come  from,  and  how  happened 
you  to  run  afoul  of  Ben?” 

“I  ran  afoul  of  her,”  answered  Ben.  “I  found  her  a cryin’ 
on  the  pavement  with  that  rascal  of  a Joe  Black  makin’  b’lieve 
he  was  well  acquainted  with  you,  and  that  you  lived  jest 
around  the  corner.” 

“Mercy  me,”  ejaculated  Mrs.  Burt,  “but  do  tell  a body 
what  you’re  here  for ; not  but  I’m  glad  to  see  you,  but  it  seems 
so  queer.  How  is  the  old  colonel,  and  that  son  I never  see— 
Ferdinand,  ain’t  it— no,  Frederic,  that’s  what  they  call  him?” 

At  the  mention  of  Frederic,  Marian  gave  a choking  sob, 
and  replied : “Col.  Raymond  is  dead,  and  Frederic — oh,  Mrs. 
Burt,  please  don’t  ask  me  about  him  now,  or  I shall  surely 
die.” 

“There’s  some  bedevilment  of  some  kind,  I’ll  warrant,”  i 
muttered  Ben,  who  was  a champion  of  all  womankind. 
“There’s  been  the  old  Harry  to  pay,  or  she  wouldn’t  be  a 
runnin’  off  here,  the  villain,”  and  in  fancy,  he  dealt  the 
unknown  Frederic  a far  heavier  blow  than  he  had  given  the 
scapegrace  Joe. 

“Well,  never  mind  now,”  said  Mrs.  Burt,  soothingly.  “Take 
off  your  things  and  have  some  supper;  you  must  be  hungry,. 
I’m  sure.  Flow  long  is  it  since  you  ate?” 

“Oh,  I don’t  know,”  answered  Marian,  a deathli'  e paleness  ■ 
overspreading  her  face;  “not  since  yesterday,  I reckon. 
Where  am  I?  Everything  is  so  confused!”  And  overcome 
with  hunger,  exhaustion  and  her  late  fright,  Marian  fainted  in 
her  chair. 

Taking  her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  an  infant,  Ben 
carried  her  to  the  spare  room,  which,  in  accordance  with  her 
New  England  habits,  Mrs.  Burt  always  kept  for  company, 
and  there  on  the  softest  of  all  soft  beds  he  laid  her  down  5 
then,  while  his  mother  removed  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  he  ran 


MARIAN  GREY 


49 


for  water  and  camphor,  chafing  with  his  own  rough  fingers 
her  little  clammy  hands,  and  bathing  her  forehead  until 
Marian  came  back  to  consciousness. 

“There,  swallow  some  cracker  and  tea,  and  you’ll  feel  better 
directly,”  said  Mrs.  Burt;  and,  like  a very  child,  Marian 
obeyed,  feeling  that  there  was  something  delicious  in  being 
thus  cared  for  after  the  dreadful  day  she  had  passed.  “You 
needn’t  talk  to  us  tonight.  There’ll  be  time  enough  tomor- 
row,” continued  Mrs.  Burt,  as  she  saw  her  about  to  speak ; and 
fixing  her  comfortably  in  bed,  she  went  back  to  Ben,  to  whom 
she  told  all  that  she  knew  concerning  Marian  and  the  family 
with  whom  she  had  lived. 

It  was  a deep,  dreamless  sleep  which  came  to  Marian  that 
night,  for  her  strength  was  utterly  exhausted,  and  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  kindness  surrounding  her,  there  was  something 
soothing  to  her  irritated  nerves.  But  when  the  morning 
broke  and  the  roar  of  the  waking  city  fell  again  upon  her  ear, 
she  started  up,  and  gazing  about  her  room,  thought  : “Where 
am  I,  and  what  is  it  that  makes  my  heart  ache  so?” 

Full  soon  she  remembered  what  it  was,  and  burying  her 
face  in  the  pillow,  she  wept  again  bitterly,  wondering  what 
they  were  doing  far  away  at  Redstone  Hall,  and  if  anybody 
but  Alice  was  sorry  she  had  gone.  A moment  after  Mrs. 
Burt’s  kind  voice  was  heard  asking  how  she  was,  and  bid- 
her  be  still  and  rest.  But  this  it  was  impossible  for  Marian  to 
do.  She  could  not  lie  there  in  that  little  room  and  listen  to 
the  din  which  began  to  produce  upon  her  the  same  dizzy,  be- 
wildering effect  it  had  done  the  previous  day,  when  she  sat  on 
the  pavement  and  saw  the  omnibuses  go  by.  She  must  be  up 
and  tell  the  kind  people  her  story,  and  then,  if  they  said  go, 
she  would  go  away — go  back  to  those  graves  she  had  seen 
yesterday,  and  lying  down  in  some  hollow  where  that  horrid 
man  and  blear-eyed  woman  could  not  find  her,  she  would  die, 
and  Frederic  would  surely  never  know  what  had  become  of 
her.  She  knew  she  could  trust  both  Mrs.  Burt  and  Ben,  and 
when  breakfast  was  over,  she  unhesitatingly  told  them  every- 
thing, interrupted  occasionally  by  Ben’s  characteristic  ex- 
clamations of  surprise  and  his  mother’s  milder  ejaculations  of 
wonder.  . 

Mrs.  Burt’s  first  impulse  was,  that  if  she  were  Marian  she 
would  claim  her  propertv,  though  of  course  she  would  not  live 
with  Frederic.  But  Ben  said  “No”— he’d  work  his  finger 
■nails  off  before  she  should  go  back.  Tis  mother  wanted  some- 
one with  her  when  he  was  gone,  and  Marian  was  sent  them  by 
Providence.  “Anyway,”  said  he,  “she  shall  live  with  us  a 


50  MARIAN  GREY 


while,  and  we'll  see  what  turns  up.  Maybe  this  man'll  begin 
to  like  her,  now  she's  gone.  It's  nater  to  do  so,  and  some 
day  he’ll  walk  in  here  and  claim  her." 

This  picture  was  not  a displeasing  one  to  Marian,  who 
/hrough  her  tears  smiled  gratefully  upon  Ben,  mentally  re- 
solving that  should  she  ever  be  mistress  of  Redstone  Hall  she 
should  remember  him.  And  then  it  was  arranged  that  Marian 
Grey,  as  she  chose  to  be  called,  should  remain  where  she  was, 
for  a time  at  least,  and  if  no  husband  came  for  her,  she 
should  stay  there  always  as  the  daughter  of  Mrs!  Burt,  whose 
motherly  heart  always  yearned  toward  the  unfortunate  orphan. 

Nearly  all  of  Ben's  life  had  been  passed  in  factories,  and 
though  now  home  on  a visit,  he  was  still  connected  with  one 
in  Ware,  Mass. 

Marian  began  to  think  the  world  was  not  so  cheerless  as  she 
had  thought  it  was.  Still  the  old,  dreary  pain  was  in  her 
heart — a desolate,  homesick  feeling,  which  kept  her  thoughts 
ever  in  one  place  and  on  one  single  object — the  place,  Red- 
stone Hall,  and  the  object,  Frederic  Raymond.  And  as  the 
days  went  by,  the  feeling  grew  into  an  intense,  longing  de- 
sire to  see  her  old  home  once  more — to  look  into  Frederic's 
face — to  listen  to  his  voice,  and  know  if  he  were  sorry  that 
she  was  gone.  This  feeling  Mrs.  Burt  did  not  seek  to  dis- 
courage, for  though  she  was  learning  fast  to  love  the  friend- 
less girl,  she  knew  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  be  reconciled 
to  Mr.  Raymond,  and  when  one  day,  nearly  four  weeks  after 
Marian’s  arrival,  the  latter  said  to  her,  “I  mean  to  write  to: 
Frederic  and  ask  him  to  take  me  back,"  she  did  not  oppose  the 
plan,  for  she  saw  how  the  great  grief  was  wearing  the  young 
girl’s  life  away,  making  her  haggard  and  pale,  and  writing 
lines  of  care  upon  the  childish  face. 

That  night  there  came  to  Marian  a paper  from  Ben,  who,- 
having  far  outstayed  his  time,  had  returned  the  week  before 
to  Ware.  Listlessly  she  tore  open  the  wrapper,  and,  glancing} 
at  the  first  page,  was  about  throwing  it  aside,  when  a marked 
paragraph  arrested  her  attention,  and,  with  burning  cheeks, 
and  fast-beating  heart,  she  read  that  “Frederic  Raymonds 
would  gladly  receive  any  information  of  a young  girl  who  had 
disappeared  mysteriously  from  Redstone  Hall." 

“Oh  !"  she  exclaimed,  springing  to  her  feet,  “I  am  going 
home — back  to  Frederic.  He’s  sent  for  me — see !"  and  she 
pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Burt  the  advertisement.  “Can  I go  to- 
night ?"  she  continued.  “Is  there  a train  ? Oh,  I am  so  glad." 

Mrs.  Burt,  however,  was  more  moderate  in  her  feelings. 
Mr.  Raymond  could  scarcely  do  less  than  advertise,  she 


MARIAN  GREY 


51 


iouo-ht  and  to  her  this  did  not  mean  that  he  wished  the  fugi- 
ve  to  return  for  any  love  he  bore  for  her.  Still,  she  would 
3t  dash  Marian’s  hopes  at  once,  though  she  would  save  her 
•om  the  cold  reception  she  felt  sure  she  would  meet,  should 
ie  return  to  Redstone  Hall,  unannounced.  So,  when  the 
rst  excitement  of  Marians  joy  had  abated,  she  said.  . I 
iould  write  to  Mr.  Raymond,  just  as  I first  thought  of  doing, 
hen  he’ll  know  where  you  are,  and  he  will  come  for  you,  if 
e wants  you,  of  course.” 

That  “if  he  wants  you”  grated  harshly  on  Marians  ear; 
ut,  after  her  past  experience,  she  did  not  care  to  thrust  herself 
pon  him,  unless  sure  that  he  wished  it,  and  concluded  to  fol- 
)W  Mrs.  Burt’s  advice.  So  she  sat  down  and  wrote  to  him  a 
scond  letter,  telling  him  where  she  was,  and  how  she  came 
iere,  and  asking  him,  in  her  childlike  way,  to  let  her  come 

ack  again.  „ f „ , .£ 

“Oh,  I want  to  come  home  so  much,  she  wrote;  and  it 
ou’ll  only  let  me,  you  needn’t  ever  call  me  your  wife,  nor 
lake  believe  I am— at  least,  not  until  you  love  me,  and  I get 
o be  a lady.  I’ll  try  so  hard  to  learn.  I’ll  go  away  to  school, 
nd  maybe,  after  a good  many  years  are  gone  you  won’t  be 
.shamed  of  me,  though  I shall  never  be  as  beautiful  as 
sabel.  If  you  don’t  want  me  back,  Frederic,  you  must  tell 
ne  so.  I can’t  feel  any  worse  than  I did  that  day  when  I sat 
iere  in  the  street  and  wished  I could  die.  I didn’t  die  then, 
naybe  I shouldn’t  now,  and  if  you  do  hate  me,  I’ll  stay  away 
ind  never  write  again — never  let  you  know  whether  I am 
dive  or  not;  and  after  seven  years,  Ben  Burt  says,  you  will 
>e  free  to  marry  Isabel.  She’ll  wait  for  you,  I know.  She 
von’t  be  too  old  then,  will  she?  I shall  be  almost  twenty- 
hree,  but  that  is  young,  and  the  years  will  seem  so  long 
o me  if  you  do  not  let  me  return.  May  I,  Frederic?  Write, 
md  tell  me  yes ; but  direct  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  as  I shall 
hen  be  more  sure  to  get  it.  I dare  not  hope  you’ll  come  for 
ne,  but  if  you  only  would,  and  quick,  too,  for  my  heart  aches 
;o,  and  my  head  is  tired  and  sick  with  the  dreadful  noise.  Do 
;ay  I may  come  home.  God  will  bless  you,  if  you  do,  I’m 
sure;  and  if  you  don’t,  I’ll  ask  Him  to  bless  you  the 
same.” 

The  letter  closed  with  another  assurance  that  she  gave  to 
lim  cheerfully  all  her  fortune — that  she  neither  blamed  his 
father,  nor  himself,  nor  Isabel,  nor  anybody.  All  she  asked 
was  to  come  back! 

And  so,  while  Marian  in  the  city  waits  and  watches  for  the 
nessage  which  will,  perhaps,  bid  her  come  back,  and  Ben,  in 

UBRARt 

1 ••lit  trnoiTV  ne  311 


52 


MARIAN  GREY 


the  noisy  factory,  waits  also  for  a message  which  shall  say 
she  has  gone,  and  his  mother  is  again  alone,  the  letter  travels 
on,  and  one  pleasant  afternoon,  when  the  clerk  at  Cincinnati 
makes  up  the  mail  for  Frankfort,  he  puts  that  important  mis- 
sive with  the  rest  and  sends  it  on  its  way. 


CHAPTER  VII 


ISABEL  HUNTINGTON 

All  day  and  all  night  it  had  rained  with  a steady,  unrelenting 
our,  and  when  the  steamboat  which  plies  between  Cincinnati 
nd  Frankfort  stopped  at  the  latter  place,  two  ladies  from  the 
)wer  deck  looked  drearily  over  the  city,  one  frowning  im- 
atiently  at  the  mud  and  rain,  while  the  other  wished  in  her 
eart  that  she  was  safely  back  in  her  old  home,  and  had  never 
onsented  to  this  foolish  trip.  This  wish,  however,  she  dared 
ot  express  to  her  companion,  who,  though  calling  her  mother, 
/as  in  reality  the  mistress — the  one  whose  word  was  law,  and 
d whose  wishes  everything  else  must  bend. 

‘This  is  delightful/'  the  younger  lady  exclaimed,  as  holding 
p her  fashionable  traveling  dress,  and  glancing  ruefully  at 
er  thin  kid  gaiters,  she  prepared  to  walk  the  plank.  “This 
> charming.  I wonder  if  they  always  have  such  weather  in 
Zentucky." 

“No,  miss,  very  seldom,  ’cept  on  ’strordinary  ’casions,"  said 
le  polite  African,  who  was  holding  an  umbrella  over  her 
ead,  and  who  felt  bound  to  defend  his  native  State. 

The  lady  tossed  her  little  bonnet  proudly,  and  turning  to  her 
lother,  continued : “Have  you  any  idea  how  we  are  to  get  to 
bedstone  Hall?" 

At  this  question  an  old  gray-haired  negro,  who  with  several 
ther  idlers,  was  standing  near,  came  forward  and  said:  “If 

:’s  Redstone  Hall  whar  miss  wants  to  go,  Ps  here  with  Mar- 
ter  Frederic's  carriage.  I come  to  fotch  a man  who’s  been 
ut  thar  trying  to  buy  a house  of  marster  in  Louisville." 

At  this  announcement  the  faces  of  both  ladies  brightened 
erceptibly,  and  pointing  out  their  baggage  to  the  negro,  who 
/as  none  other  than  our  old  friend  Uncle  Phil,  they  went  to  a 
ublic  house  to  wait  until  the  carriage  came  round  for  them. 

“What  do  you  suppose  Frederic  will  think  when  he  sees 
s,"  the  mother  asked,  and  the  daughter  replied:  “He  won’t 

liink  anything,  of  course.  It  is  perfectly  proper  that  we 
hould  visit  our  relations,  particularly  when  we  are  as  near  to 
hem  as  Dayton,  and  they  are  in  affliction,  too.  He  would 
tave  been  displeased  if  we  had  returned  without  giving  him 

call." 

darian  Grey 


53 


MARIAN  GREY 


54i 


From  these  remarks  the  reader  will  readily  imagine  that  th 
ladies  in  question  were  Mrs.  Huntington  and  her  daughte 
Isabella.  They  had  decided  at  last  to  visit  Dayton,  and  ha 
started  for  that  city  a few  days  after  the  receipt  of  Frederic 
letter  announcing  his  father’s  death;  consequently  they  kne^ 
nothing  of  the  marriage,  and  the  fact  that  Col.  Raymond  wa 
dead  only  increased  Isabel’s  desire  to  visit  Redstone  Hall,  fc 
she  rightly  guessed  that  Frederic  was  now  so  absorbed  i 
business  that  it  would  be  long  ere  he  came  to  New  Have 
again;  so  she  insisted  upon  coming,  and  as  she  found  he 
Ohio  aunt  not  altogether  agreeable,  she  had  shortened  he 
visit  there,  and  now  with  her  mother  sat  waiting  in  the  Mar 
sion  House  for  the  appearance  of  Phil  and  the  carriage.  Sli 
knew  that  the  Kentuckians  were  proverbial  for  their  hosp 
tality,  and  feeling  sure  that  no  one  would  think  it  at  all  in 
proper  for  her  mother  and  herself  to  visit  their  cousin,  c 
she  called  Frederic,  she  determined,  if  possible,  to  prolon 
that  visit  until  asked  to  stay  with  him  always.  So  when  Ph 
came  around  with  the  carriage,  she  said  to  him,  quite  as 
matter  of  course:  “How  is  Cousin  Frederic  since  his  father 
death?" 

“Jest  tolable,  thankee,”  returned  the  negro,  at  the  same  tin. 
saying,  “Be  you  marster’s  kin?” 

“Certainly,”  answered  Isabel,  while  the  negro  bowed  lov 
for  anyone  related  to  his  master  was  a person  of  distinctic 
to  him. 

Isabel  had  heard  Frederic  speak  of  Marian,  and  when  the 
were  nearly  halfway  home,  she  put  her  head  from  the  windo1 
and  said  to  Phil : “Where  is  the  young  girl  who  used  to  li\ 
with  Col  Raymond — Marian  was  her  name,  I think?” 

“Bless  you,”  returned  the  negro,  cracking  his  whip  nen 
ously,  “hain’t  you  hearn  how  she  done  got  married  to  marsh 
mighty  nigh  three  weeks  ago?” 

“Married ! Frederic  Raymond  married !”  screame 
Isabel;  “it  is  not  true.  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  a fals* 
hood?” 

“ ’Strue  as  preachin’,  and  a heap  truer  than  some  on’t,  for 
seen  ’em  joined  with  these  very  eyes,”  said  Phil,  and,  glancin 
backward  at  the  white  face  leaning  from  the  window,  he  dro\ 
rapidly  on,  thinking  he  wouldn’t  tell  her  that  the  bride  ha 
run  away — he  would  let  Frederic  do  that. 

Meantime,  Isabel,  inside,  was  choking — gasping — crying- 
wringing  her  hands  and  insisting  that  her  mother  should  as 
the  negro  again  if  what  he  had  told  them  was  so. 

“Man — sir,”  said  Mrs.  Huntington,  putting  her  bonnet  oi 


MARIAN  GREY  55 


iito  the  rain,  “is  Mr.  Frederic  Raymond  really  married  to 
:iat  girl  Marian?” 

“Yes,  as  true  as  Fm  sittin'  here.  Thursday  'll  be  three 
reeks  since  the  weddin’,”  was  the  reply,  and  with  another 
ysterical  sob,  Isabel  laid  her  head  in  her  mother's  lap. 
Nothing  could  exceed  her  rage,  mortification,  and  disap- 
aintment,  except,  indeed,  her  pride,  and  this  was  stronger 
lan  all  her  other  emotions  and  that  which  finally  aroused  her 

> action.  She  would  not  turn  back  now,  she  said.  She  would 
rave  the  villain  and  show  him  that  she  did  not  care.  She  would 
it  herself  by  the  side  of  his  wife  and  let  him  see  the  contrast, 
he  had  surely  heard  from  him  that  Marian  was  plain,  and  in 
mcy,  she  saw  how  she  would  overshadow  her  rival  and  make 
rederic  feel  keenly  the  difference  between  them,  and  then  she 
lought  of  the  discarded  Rudolph.  If  everything  else  should 
iil,  she  could  win  him  back — he  had  some  money,  and  she 
ould  rather  be  his  wife  than  nobody’s! 

By  this  time  they  had  left  the  highway,  for  Redstone  Hall 
as  more  than  a mile  from  the  turnpike,  and  Isabel  found 
mple  opportunity  for  venting  her  ill-nature.  “Such  a road  as 
lat  she  never  saw  before,  and  she’d  like  to  know  if  folks  in 
'entuckv  lived  in  the  lots.  No  wonder  they  were  such 
eathens ! you  nigger,”  she  exclaimed,  as  Phil  drove  through 
brook;  “are  you  going  to  tip  us  over,  or  what?” 

“Wonder  if  she  'spects  a body  is  gwine  around  the  brook,” 
luttered  Phil,  and  as  the  carriage  wheels  were  now  safe  from 
le  water,  he  stopped  and  said  to  the  indignant  lady,  “mebby 
iiss  would  rather  walk  the  rest  of  the  way.  Thar's  a heap 
us  places  in  the  cornfield,  whar  we'll  be  pretty  likely  to  get 
/ersot.” 

i “Go  on,”  snapped  Isabel,  who  knew  she  could  not  walk  quite 
5 well  as  the  mischievous  driver. 

Accordingly  they  went  on,  and  ere  long  came  in  sight  of  the 
Duse,  which  even  in  that  drenching  rain  looked  beautiful  to 
>abel,  and  all  the  more  beautiful  because  she  felt  that  she  had 
*st  it.  On  the  piazza  little  Alice  stood,  her  fair  hair  blowing 
v^er  her  face  and  her  ear  turned  to  catch  the  first  sound  which 
tould  tell  her  of  what  she  hoped  was  true.  Old  Dinah,  who 
iw  the  carriage  in  the  distance,  had  said  there  was  someone 
i it,  and  instantly  Alice  thought  of  Marian,  and  going  out 
pon  the  piazza,  she  waited  impatiently  until  Phil  drove  up 

> the  door. 

“There  are  four  feet,”  she  said,  as  the  strangers  came  up 
ie  steps ; “four  feet,  but  none  are  Marian's,”  and  she  turned 
idly  away,  when  she  accidentally  trod  upon  the  long  skirt  of 


56 


MARIAN  GREY 


Isabel,  who  snatching  it  away,  said  angrily,  “Child,  what  ar< 
you  doing — stepping  on  my  dress  ?” 

“I  didn't  mean  to,  I'm  blind,”  answered  Alice,  her  lij 
quivering  and  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

“Never  you  mind  that  she-dragon,”  whispered  Uncle  Phil 
thrusting  into  the  child’s  hand  a paper  of  candy,  which  ha( 
the  effect  of  consoling  her  somewhat,  both  for  her  disappoint 
ment  and  her  late  unmerited  reproof. 

“Who  is  that  ar?”  asked  Dinah,  appearing  upon  the  piazz; 
just  as  Isabel  passed  into  the  hall.  “Some  of  marster’s  kin  F 
she  repeated  after  Uncle  Phil.  “For  the  Lord's  sake,  wha 
fotched  'em  here  this  rainy  day,  when  we's  gwine  to  have  ai 
onery  dinner — no  briled  hen,  nor  turkey,  nor  nothin.'  Be  the; 
quality,  think?” 

“ 'Spects  the  young  one  wants  to  be  if  she  ain’t,”  returne* 
Phil,  with  a very  expressive  wink,  which  had  the  effect  o 
enlightening  Dinah  with  regard  to  his  opinion. 

“Some  low-flung  truck,  I'll  warrant,”  said  she,  as  she  fol 
lowed  them  into  the  parlor,  where  Isabel’s  stately  bearing  an 
glittering  black  eyes  awed  her  into  a low  courtesy,  as  she  said 
“You're  very  welcome  to  Redstone  Hall,  I'm  sure.  Who  sha 
I tell  marster  wants  to  see  him  ?” 

“Two  ladies,  simply,”  was  Isabel’s  haughty  answer,  and  ol 
Dinah  departed,  whispering  to  herself : “Two  ladies  simple 

She  must  think  I don't  know  nothin'  'bout  grarmar  to  talk  i, 
that  kind  of  way,  but  she's  mistakened.  I hain't  lived  in  th 
fust  families  for  nothin',”  and  knocking  at  Frederic's  dooi 
she  told  him  that  two  simple  ladies  were  down  in  the  park 
and  wanted  him. 

“Who?”  he  asked  in  some  surprise,  and  Dinah  replied: 

“Anyway,  that's  what  she  said — the  tall  one,  with  gre; 
black  eyes  jest  like  coals  of  fire.  Phil  picked  'em  up  in  Franl 
ford,  whar  they  got  off  the  boat.  They's  some  o'  yer  kin,  thej 
say.” 

Frederic  did  not  wish  to  hear  any  more,  for  he  suspecte 
who  they  were.  It  was  about  this  time  they  had  talked  c 
visiting  Dayton,  and  motioning  Dinah  from  the  room,  I 
pressed  his  hands  to  his  forehead,  and  thought:  “Must 

suffer  this,  too?  Oh,  why  did  she  come  to  look  at  me  in  ni 
misery  ?”  Then,  forcing  an  unnatural  calmness,  he  started  fc 
the  parlor,  where,  as  he  had  feared,  he  stood  face  to  face  wit 
Isabel  Huntington. 

She  was  very  pale,  and  in  her  black  eyes  there  was  a har 
dangerous  expression,  from  which  he  gladly  turned  away,  a< 
dressing  first  her  mother,  who,  rising  to  meet  him,  said: 


MARIAN  GREY 


57 


“We  have  accepted  your  invitation,  you  see.” 

“Yes,  ma'am,”  he  replied,  and  he  was  trying  to  stammer  out 
a welcome,  when  Isabel,  who  all  the  time  had  been  aching  to 
pounce  upon  him,  chimed  in: 

“Where  is  Mrs.  Raymond?  I am  dying  to  see  my  new 
cousin,”  and  in  the  eyes  of  black  there  was  a reddish  gleam, 
as  if  they  might  ere  long  emit  sparks  of  living  fire. 

“Mrs.  Raymond!”  repeated  Frederic,  the  name  dropping 
slowly  from  his  lips.  “Mrs.  Raymond ! Oh,  Isabel,  don’t  you 
know?  Haven’t  you  heard?” 

“Certainly  I have,”  returned  the  young  lady,  watching  him 
as  a fierce  cat  watches  its  helpless  prey.  “Of  course  I have 
heard  of  your  marriage,  and  have  come  to  congratulate  you. 
Is  your  wife  well?” 

Frederic  raised  his  hand  to  stop  the  flippant  speech,  and 
when  it  was  finished  he  rejoined:  “But  haven’t  you  heard 

the  rest — the  saddest  part  of  all  ? Marian  is  dead ! — drowned 
— at  least  we  think  she  must  be,  for  she  went  away  on  our 
wedding  night,  and  no  trace  of  her  can  be  found.” 

The  fiery  gleam  was  gone  from  the  black  eyes — the  color 
came  back  to  the  cheeks — the  finger-nails  ceased  their  painful 
pressure  upon  the  tender  flesh — the  shadow  of  a smile  dimpled 
the  corner  of  the  mouth,  and  Isabel  was  herself  again. 

“Dead!  Drowned!”  she  exclaimed.  “How  did  it  happen? 
What  was  the  reason  ? Dreadful,  isn’t  it  ?”  and  going  over  to 
where  Mr.  Raymond  stood,  she  looked  him  in  the  face,  with  an 
expression  she  meant  should  say:  “I  am  sorry  for  you,”  but 
which  really  did  say  something  quite  the  contrary. 

“I  cannot  tell  you  why  she  went  away,”  Frederic  answered, 
“but  there  was  a reason  for  it,  and  it  has  cast  a shadow  over 
my  whole  life.” 

“Marian  was  a mere  child,  I had  always  supposed,”  sug- 
gested Isabel,  anxious  to  get  at  the  reason  why  he  had  so  soon 
forgotten  herself. 

“Did  you  get  my  last  letter — the  one  written  to  you  ?”  asked 
Frederic,  and  upon  Isabel’s  replying  that  she  did  not,  he 
briefly  stated  a few  facts  concerning  his  marriage,  saying  it 
was  his  father’s  dying  request,  and  he  could  not  well  avoid  do- 
ing as  he  had  done,  even  if  he  disliked  Marian.  “But  I 
didn’t  dislike  her,”  he  continued,  and  the  hot  blood  rushed  into 
his  face.  “She  was  a gentle,  generous-hearted  girl,  and  had 
she  lived,  I would  have  made  her  happy.” 

If  by  this  speech  Frederic  Raymond  thought  to  deceive 
Isabel  Huntington,  he  was  mistaken,  for,  looking  into  his  eyes 
she  read  a portion  of  the  truth  and  knew  there  was  something 


58 


MARIAN  GREY 


back  of  all — a something  between  himself  and  his  father 
which  had  driven  him  to  the  marriage.  What  it  was  she  did 
not  care  then  to  know.  She  was  satisfied  that  the  bride  was 
gone — and  when  Frederic  narrated  more  minutely  the  par- 
ticulars of  her  going,  the  artful  girl  said  to  herself : “She  is 
dead  beyond  a doubt,  and  when  I have  Redstone  Hall,  I shall 
know  it,  and  mother,  too  I” 

Frederic  would  rather  that  Isabel  had  never  come  to  Red- 
stone Hall,  but  now  that  she  was  there,  he  did  not  wish  her 
away.  It  would  be  inhospitable,  he  said,  and  when  next  morn- 
ing she  came  down  to  breakfast,  bright,  fresh  and  elegant  in 
her  tasteful  wrapper,  he  felt  a pang,  as  he  thought:  “Had 

I done  right,  she  might  have  been  the  mistress  of  Redstone 
Hall,”  but  it  could  not  be  now,  he  said,  even  if  Marian  were 
dead,  and  all  that  day  he  struggled  manfully  between  his  duty 
and  his  inclination,  while  Isabel  dealt  out  her  highest  card, 
ingrafting  herself  into  the  good  graces  of  the  Smitherses  by 
speaking  to  them  pleasant,  familiar  words,  exalting  herself  in 
the  estimation  of  the  Higginses  by  her  lofty,  graceful  bear- 
ing, and  winning  Dinah's  friendship  by  praising  Victoria 
Eugenia,  and  asking  if  that  fine-looking  man  who  drove  the 
carriage  was  her  husband.  Then,  in  the  evening,  when  the 
lamps  were  lighted  in  the  parlor,  she  opened  the  piano  and 
filled  the  house  with  the  rich  melody  of  her  cultivated  voice, 
singing  a sad,  plaintive  strain,  which  reminded  Alice  of  poor, 
lost  Marian,  and  carried  Frederic  back  to  other  days,  when, 
with  a feeling  of  pride,  he  had  watched  her  snowy  fingers  as 
they  gracefully  swept  the  keys.  He  could  not  look  at  then? 
now — he  dared  not  look  at  her,  in  her  ripe,  glowing  beauty, 
and  he  left  the  room,  going  out  upon  the  piazza,  where  he 
wiped  great  drops  of  sweat  from  his  face,  and  almost  cursed 
the  fate  which  had  made  it  a sin  for  him  to  love  the  dark- 
haired Isabel.  She  knew  that  he  was  gone,  and  rightly  divining 
the  cause,  she  dashed  off  into  a stirring,  dancing  tune,  which 
brought  the  negroes  to  the  door,  where  they  stood  admiring 
her  playing,  and  praising  her  queenly  form. 

“That’s  somethin’  like  it,”  whispered  Hetty,  beating  time  to 
the  lively  strain.  “That  sounds  like  Miss  Beatrice  did  when 
she  done  played  the  pianner.  I ’clare  for’t,  I eenamost  wish 
Marster  Frederic  had  done  chose  her.  ’Case  yer  know, 
t’other  one  done  drowned  herself  the  fust  night,”  she  added, 
quickly,  as  she  met  Dinah’s  rebuking  glance. 

Dinah  admired  Isabel,  but  she  could  not  forget  Marian; 
though  like  her  sex,  whether  black  or  white,  she  speculated 
upon  the  future,  when  “Marster  Frederic  would  be  done 


MARIAN  GREY 


59 


mournin’,”  and  she  wondered  if  “old  miss,”  meaning  Mrs. 
Huntington,  would  think  it  necessary  to  stay  there,  too.  Tnus 
several  days  went  by,  and  so  pleasant  was  it  to  Frederic  to 
have  someone  in  the  house  who  could  divert  him  from  his 
o-loomy  thoughts,  that  he  began  to  dread  the  time  when  he 
would  be  alone  again.  But  could  he  have  looked  into  the  heart 
of  the  fair  lady,  he  would  have  seen  no  immediate  cause  of 
alarm.  Isabel  did  not  intend  to  leave  her  present  quarters  im- 
mediately, and  to  this  end  all  her  plans  were  laid.  From  what 
she  had  heard  she  believed  Marian  Lindsey  was  dead,  and  if 
so,  she  would  not  again  trust  Frederic  away  from  her  in- 
fluence. Redstone  Hall  needed  a head— a housekeeper— and 
as  her  mother  was  an  old  lady,  and  also  a relative  of  Frederic, 
she  was  just  the  one  to  fill  that  post.  Their  house  in  New 
Haven  was  only  rented  until  March,  and  by  writing  to  some 
friends  they  could  easily  dispose  of  their  furniture  until  such 
time  as  they  might  want  it.  Alice  needed  a governess,  for  she 
heard  Frederic  say  so;  and  though  the  little  pest— this  was 
what  she  called  her  to  herself— did  not  seem  to  like  her,  she 
could  teach  her  as  well  as  anyone.  It  would  be  just  as  proper 
for  her  to  be  Alice's  governess  as  for  anyone  else,  and  a little 
more  so,  for  her  mother  would  be  with  her. 

And  this  arrangement  she  brought  about  with  the  most 
consummate  skill,  first  asking  Frederic  if  he  knew  of  any 
situation  in  Kentucky  which  she  could  procure  as  a teacher. 
That  was  one  object  of  her  visit,  she  said.  She  must  do  some- 
thing for  a living,  and  as  she  would  rather  teach  either  in  a 
school,  or  in  a private  family,  she  should  be  greatly  obliged 
to  him  if  he  would  assist  her  a little.  Hardly  knowing  what 
he  was  doing,  Frederic  said  something  about  Alice’s  having 
needed  a governess  for  a long  time;  and,  quickly  catching  at 
it,  Isabel  rejoined: 

“Oh ! but  you  know  I couldn’t  possibly  remain  here,  unless 
mother  stayed  with  me.  Now,  if  you’ll  keep  her  as  a kind  of 
overseer-in-general  of  the  house,  I’ll  gladly  undertake  the 
charge  of  dear  little  Alice’s  education.  She  does  not  fancy 
me,  I think,  but  I’m  sure  I can  win  her  love.  I can  that  of 
almost  anyone — children,  I mean,  of  course”;  and  the  beauti- 
ful, fascinating  eyes  looked  out  of  the  window  quite  indiffer- 
ently, as  if  their  owner  were  utterly  oblivious  of  the  fierce 
struggle  in  Frederic’s  bosom. 

It  was  several  days  before  Alice  was  told  that  Isabel  was  to 
be  her  governess,  and  then  she  rebelled  at  once.  Bursting  into 
tears,  she  hid  her  face  in  Dinah's  lap,  and  sobbed:  “I  can’t 

learn  of  her.  I don’t  like  her.  What  shall  I do?” 


60 


MARIAN  GREY 


“I  wish  to  goodness  I had  lamin',"  answered  Dinah,  “and 
I'd  hear  you  say  over  that  foolishness  'bout  the  world's  turnin' 
round  and  makin'  us  stan'  on  our  heads  half  the  time,  but  I 
hain't,  and  if  I's  you  I'd  make  the  best  on't.  I'll  keep  my  eye 
on  her,  and  if  she  makes  you  do  the  fust  thing  you  don't  want 
to,  I'll  gin  her  a piece  of  my  mind.  I ain't  afraid  on  her. 
Why,  Gibson's  niggers  say  how  they  hearn  Miss  Agnes  say 
she  used  to  make  her  own  bed  whar  she  come  from,  and  wash 
dishes,  too  ! Think  o'  that !" 

Thus  comforted,  Alice  dried  her  tears,  and  hunting  up  the 
books  from  which  she  had  once  recited  to  Marian,  she  de- 
clared herself  ready  for  her  lessons  at  any  time. 

“Let  it  be  tomorrow,  then,"  said  Isabel,  who  knew  that 
Frederic  was  going  to  Lexington,  and  that  she  could  not  see 
him  even  if  she  were  not  occupied  with  Alice. 

So,  the  next  morning,  after  Frederic  was  gone,  Alice  went 
to  the  schoolroom,  and  drawing  her  little  chair  to  Isabel's  side, 
laid  her  books  upon  the  lady's  lap,  and  waited  for  her  to  begin. 

“You  must  read  to  me,"  she  said,  “until  I know  what  'tis, 
and  then  I'll  recite  it  to  you." 

But  Isabel  was  never  intended  for  a teacher,  and  she  found 
it  very  tedious  reading  the  same  thing  over  and  over,  par- 
ticularly as  Alice  seemed  inattentive  and  not  at  all  inclined  to 
remember.  At  last  she  said  impatiently:  “For  the  pity's 

sake,  how  many  more  times  must  I read  it  ? Can’t  you  learn 
anything  ?" 

“Don’t — don't  speak  so,"  sobbed  Alice.  “I'm  thinking  of 
Marian,  and  how  she  used  to  be  with  me.  It's  just  six  weeks 
today  since  she  went  away.  Oh,  I wish  she'd  come  back.  Do 
you  believe  she's  dead?" 

Isabel  was  interested  in  anything  concerning  Marian,  and 
closing  the  book,  she  began  to  question  the  child,  asking  her 
among  other  things  if  Marian  did  not  leave  a letter  for  Mr. 
Raymond,  and  if  she  knew  what  was  in  it. 

“No  one  knows,"  returned  the  child;  “he  never  told — but 
here’s  mine,"  and  drawing  from  her  bosom  the  soiled  note, 
she  passed  it  to  Isabel,  who  scrutinized  it  closely,  particularly 
the  handwriting. 

“Of  course  she's  dead,  or  she  would  have  been  heard  from 
ere  this,"  she  said,  passing  the  note  back  to  Alice,  who,  not 
feeling  particularly  comforted,  made  but  little  progress  in  her 
studies  that  morning,  and  both  teacher  and  pupil  were  glad 
when  the  lessons  of  the  day  were  over. 

Before  starting  for  Lexington,  Frederic  had  sent  Josh  on 
some  errand  to  Frankfort,  and  just  after  dinner  the  negro 


MARIAN  GREY 


61 


returned.  Isabel  was  still  alone  upon  the  piazza  when  he  came 
up,  and  as  she  was  expecting  news  from  New  Haven,  she 
asked  if  he  stopped  at  the  post  office. 

“Ye-e-us  'm,"  began  the  stuttering  negro;  “an"  I d-d-d-one 
got  a h-h-eap  on  ’em,  too/'  and  Josh  gave  her  six  letters-— one 
for  herself  and  five  for  Frederic. 

Hastily  breaking  the  seal  of  her  own  letter,  she  read  that 
their  matters  at  home  were  satisfactorily  arranged — a tenant 
had  already  been  found  for  their  house,  and  their  furniture 
would  be  safely  stowed  away.  Hearing  her  mother  in  the 
hall,  she  handed  the  letter  to  her  and  then  went  to  the  library 
to  dispose  of  Frederic's.  As  she  was  laying  them  down  she 
glanced  at  the  superscriptions,  carelessly,  indifferently,  until 
she  came  to  the  last,  the  one  bearing  the  New  York  post- 
mark; then,  with  a nervous  start  she  caught  it  up  again  and 
examined  it  more  closely,  while  a sickening,  horrid  fear  crept 
through  her  flesh — her  heart  gave  one  fearful  throb  and  then 
lay  like  some  heavy,  pulseless  weight  within  her  bosom.  Could 
it  be  that  she  had  seen  that  writing  before?  Had  the  dead 
wife  returned  to  life,  and  was  she  coming  back  to  Redstone 
Hall?  The  thought  was  overwhelming,  and  for  a moment 
Isabel  Huntington  was  tempted  to  break  that  seal  and  read. 
But  she  dared  not,  for  her  suspicion  might  be  false ; she  would 
see  Alice's  note  again,  and  seeking  out  the  child,  she  asked 
permission  to  take  the  letter  which  Marian  had  written.  Alice 
complied  with  her  request,  and  darting  away  to  the  library, 
Isabel  compared  the  two.  They  were  the  same.  There  could 
be  no  mistake,  and  in  the  intensity  of  her  excitement,  she  felt 
her  black  hair  loosening  at  its  roots. 

“It  is  from  her,  but  he  shall  never  see  it,  never !"  she  ex- 
claimed aloud,  and  her  voice  was  so  unnatural  that  she  started 
at  the  sound,  and  turning,  saw  Alice  standing  in  the  door  with 
an  inquiring  look  upon  her  face,  as  if  asking  the  meaning  of 
what  she  had  heard. 

Isabel  quailed  beneath  the  glance  of  that  sightless  child, 
and  then  sat  perfectly  still,  while  Alice  said : “Miss  Hunting- 
ton,  are  you  here?  Was  it  you  who  spoke?" 

Isabel  made  no  answer,  but  trembling  in  every  limb,  shrank 
farther  and  farther  back  in  her  chair  as  the  little,  groping  out- 
stretched arms  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  her.  Presently, 
when  she  saw  no  escape,  she  forced  a loud  laugh,  and  said : 
“Fie,  Alice.  I tried  to  frighten  you  by  feigning  a strange 
voice.  You  want  your  letter,  don't  you?  Here  it  is.  I only 
wished  to  see  if  in  reading  it  a second  time  I could  get  any 
clew  to  the  mystery,"  and  she  gave  the  bit  of  paper  back  to 


62 


MARIAN  GREY 


Alice,  who,  somewhat  puzzled  to  understand  what  it  all  meant, 
left  the  room,  and  Isabel  was  again  alone.  Three  times 
she  caught  up  the  letter  with  the  intention  of  breaking 
its  seal,  and  as  often  threw  it  down,  for,  unprincipled  as  she 
was,  she  shrank  from  that  act,  and  still,  if  she  did  not  know 
the  truth,  she  should  go  mad,  she  said,  and  pressing  her  hands 
to  her  forehead,  she  thought  what  the  result  to  herself  would 
be  were  Marian  really  alive. 

“But  she  isn’t,”  she  exclaimed.  “I  won’t  have  it  so.  She’s 
dead— she’s  buried  in  the  river.”  But  who  was  there  in  New 
York  that  wrote  so  much  like  her?  She  wished  she  knew,  and 
she  might  now,  too,  by  opening  the  letter.  If  it  was  from  a 
stranger,  she  could  destroy  it,  and  he  thinking  it  had  been 
lost,  would  write  again.  She  should  die  if  she  didn’t  know, 
and  maybe  she  should  die  if  she  did. 

At  all  events  reality  was  more  endurable  than  suspense,  and 
glancing  furtively  around  to  make  sure  that  no  blind  eyes  were 
near,  she  snatched  the  letter  from  the  table  and  broke  the  seal ! 
Even  then  she  dared  not  read  it,  until  she  reflected  that  she 
could  not  give  it  to  Frederic  in  this  condition — she  might  as 
well  see  what  it  contained ; and  wiping  the  cold  moisture  from 
her  face  she  opened  it  and  read,,  while  her  flesh  seemed  turn- 
ing to  stone,  and  she  could  feel  the  horror  creeping  through 
her  veins,  freezing  her  blood  and  petrifying  her  very  brain. 
Marian  Lindsey  lived ! She  was  coming  back  again — back 
to  her  husband,  and  back  to  the  home  which  was  hers.  There 
was  enough  in  the  letter  for  her  to  guess  the  truth,  and  she 
knew  why  another  had  been  preferred  to  herself.  For  a 
moment  even  her  lip  curled  with  scorn  at  what  she  felt  was 
an  unmanly  act,  but  this  feeling  was  soon  lost  in  the  terrible 
thought  that  Marian  might  return. 

“Can  it  be  ? Must  it  be  ?”  she  whispered,  as  her  hard,  black 
eyes.  fastened  themselves  again  upon  the  page  blotted  with 
Marian’s  tears.  “Seven  years — seven  years,”  she  continued; 
“I’ve  heard  of  that  before,”  and  into  the  wild  tumult  of  her 
thoughts  there  stole  a ray  of  hope.  If  she  withheld  the  letter 
from  Frederic,  and  she  must  withhold  it  now,  he  would  never 
know  what  she  knew.  Possibly,  too,  Marian  might  die,  and 
though  she  would  have  repelled  the  accusation,  Isabel  Hunt- 
ington was  guilty  of  murder  in  her  heart,  as  she  sat  there 
alone  and  planned  what  she  would  do.  She  was  almost  on  the 
borders  of  insanity,  for  the  disappointment  to  her  now  would 
be  greater  and  more  humiliating  than  before.  She  had  no 
home  to  go  to — her  arrangements  for  remaining  in  Kentucky 
were  all  made,  and  Redstone  Hall  seemed  to  her  so  fair  that 


MARIAN  GREY 


63 


;he  would  willingly  wait  twice  seven  years,  if,  at  the  expira- 
tion of  that  time  she  were  sure  of  being  its  mistress.  It  was 
worth  trying  for,  and  though  she  had  but  little  hope  of  suc- 
:ess,  the  beautiful  demon  bent  her  queenly  head  and  tried  to 
:levise  some  means  of  effectually  silencing  Marian,  so  that  if 
there  really  were  anything  in  the  seven  years  the  benefit 

would  accrue  to  her.  ^ • i 

-She’s  a little  silly  fool,”  she  said,  "and  this  Mrs.  Daniel 
Burt  she  talked  about  is  just  as  silly  as  herself.  They  11  both 
believe  whatever  is  told  to  them.  I may  never  marry  h red- 
eric.  it  is  true,  but  Til  be  revenged  on  Marian.  What  business 
had’ she  to  cross  my  path,  the  little  red-headed  jade!” 

Isabel  was  growing  excited,  and  as  she  dared  do  anything 
when  angry,  she  resolved  to  send  the  letter  back. 

“I  can  imitate  his  handwriting,”  she  thought;  "I  can  do 
anything  as  I feel  now,”  and  going  to  her  room,  she  found  the 
letter  he  had  written  to  her  mother. 

This  she  studied  and  imitated  for  half  an  hour,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  time  wrote  on  the  blank  page  of  Marian  s letter, 
“Isabel  Huntington  is  now  the  mistress  of  Redstone  Hall.” 

“That  will  keep  her  still,  I reckon,”  she  said,  and  taking  a 
fresh  envelope,  she  directed  it  to  “Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  as 
Marian  had  bidden  Frederic  to  do.  “ ’Twas  a fortunate  cir- 
cumstance, her  telling  him  that,  for  ‘Marian  Lindsey’  would 
have  been  observed  at  once,”  she  thought;  and  then,  lest  her 
resolution  should  fail  her,  she  found  Josh  and  bade  him  take 
the  letter  to  the  post  office  at  the  Forks  of  Elkhorn  and  not 
very  far  away. 

Nothing  could  suit  Josh  better  than  to  ride,  and  stuttering 
out  something  which  nobody  could  understand,  he  mounted  his 
rather  sorry-looking  horse  and  was  soon  galloping  ^ out  of 
sight.  In  the  kitchen  Mrs.  Huntington  heard  of  Josh’s  desti- 
nation, and  when  next  she  met  her  daughter,  she  asked  to 
whom  she  had  been  writing. 

“To  someone,  of  course,”  answered  Isabel,  at  the  same  time 
intimating  that  she  hoped  she  could  have  a correspondent 
without  her  mother  troubling  herself. 

The  rudeness  of  this  speech  was  forgotten  by  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ington in  her  alarm  at  Isabel’s  pale  face,  and  she  asked 
anxiously  what'was  the  matter. 

“Nothing  but  a wretched  headache— teaching  don’t  agree 
with  me,”  was  Isabel’s  reply,  and  turning  away  she  ran  up  the 
stairs  to  her  room,  where,  throwing  herself  upon  the  bed,  she 
tried  to  fancy  it  all  a dream. 

Already  was  she  reaping  the  fruit  of  the  transgression,  and 


64 


MARIAN  GREY 


when  an  hour  later  she  heard  the  voice  of  Frederic  in  the  hall, 
she  stopped  her  ears,  and,  burying  her  face  still  closer  in  the 
pillows,  wished  that  either  Marian  or  herself  had  never  seen 
the  light  of  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FREDERIC  AND  ALICE 

All  the  day  long  Frederic  had  thought  of  Marian— thought 
of  the  little  blue-eyed  girl,  who  just  six  weeks  before  went 
away  from  him  to  die.  To  die ! Many,  many  times  he  said 
that  to  himself,  and  as  often  as  he  said  it,  he  thought:  “Per- 
haps she  is  not  dead,”  until  the  belief  grew  strong  within  him 
that  somewhere  he  should  find  her,  that  very  day  it  might  be. 
He  wished  he  could,  and  take  her  back  to  Redstone  Hall, 
where  she  would  be  a barrier  between  himself  and  the  beau- 
tiful temptation  which  it  was  so  hard  for  him  to  resist.  Man- 
fully had  he  struggled  against  it,  the  temptation,  going  always 
from  its  presence  when  the  eyes  of  lustrous  black  looked  softly 
into  his  own,  and  when  he  heard,  as  he  often  did,  the  full, 
rich-toned  voice  singing  merry  songs,  he  stopped  his  ears  lest 
the  sweet  music  would  touch  a chord  which  he  said  was  hushed 
forever. 

All  about  the  house  was  dark,  but  on  the  piazza  a little 
figure  was  standing,  and  as  its  dim  outline  was  revealed  to 
him,  he  said  involuntarily:  “That  may  be  Marian,  and  I am 
glad,  or  at  least  I will  be  glad,”  and  he  was  hurrying  on,  when 
a light  from  the  hall  streamed  out  upon  the  figure,  and  he 
saw  that  it  was  Alice  waiting  for  him.  Still  the  impression 
was  so  strong  that,  after  kissing  her,  he  asked  if  no  one  had 
been  at  the  hall  that  day. 

“No  one,”  she  answered,  and  with  a vague  feeling  of  dis- 
appointment, he  led  her  into  the  house. 

Alice’s  heart  was  full  that  night,  for  accidentally  she  had 
heard  Old  Hetty  and  Lyd  discussing  the  probable  result  of 
Isabel’s  sojourn  among  them,  and  the  very  idea  shocked  her, 
as  if  they  had  trampled  on  Marian’s  grave. 

“I’ll  tell  Frederic,”  she  said  to  herself,  “and  ask  him  if  he 
is  going  to  marry  her,”  and,  when,  after  his  supper  he  went 
into  the  library  to  read  the  letters  which  Mrs.  Huntington  told 
him  were  there,  she  followed  him  thither. 

It  was  not  Frederic’s  nature  to  pet  or  notice  children  much, 
but  in  his  sorrow  he  had  learned  to  love  the  little  helpless  girl 
dearly,  and  when  he  saw  her  standing  beside  him  with  a wist- 
ful look  upon  her  face,  he  smoothed  her  soft  brown  hair  and 
said:  “What  does  my  blind  bird  want?” 

Marian  Grey  65 


66 


MARIAN  GREY 


“Take  me  in  your  lap,”  said  Alice,  “so  I can  feel  your  heart 
beat  and  know  if  you  tell  me  true.” 

He  complied  with  her  request,  and  laying  her  head  against 
his  bosom,  she  began,  “Be  we  much  relatea?”* 

“'Second  cousins,  that’s  all." 

“'But  you  love  me,  don’t  you?” 

“Yes,  very  much.” 

“And  I love  you  a heap,”  returned  the  little  girl.  “I  didn’t 
use  to,  though — till  Marian  went  away.  Frederic,  Marian 
isn’t  dead!”  and,  lifting  up  her  head,  Alice  looked  at  him 
with  a truthful,  earnest  look,  which  seemed  to  say  that  she 
believed  what  she  asserted. 

Frederic  gasped  a short,  quick  breath,  and  Alice  continued: 
“Wouldn’t  it  be  very  wicked  for  you  to  love  anybody  else? 
I don’t  mean  me — because  I’m  a little  blind  girl — but  to  love 
somebody  and  marry  them  with  Marian  alive?” 

“Certainly  it  would  be  wicked,”  he  replied ; and  Alice  con- 
tinued: “Aunt  Hetty  said  you  were  going  to  marry  Isabel, 
and  it  almost  broke  my  heart.  I never  thought  before  that 
Marian  wasn’t  dead,  but  I knew  it  then.  I felt  her  right 
there  with  us,  and  I’ve  felt  her  ever  since.  Dinah,  too,  said 
it  seemed  to  her  just  like  Marian  was  alive,  and  that  she 
hoped  you  wouldn’t  make — perhaps  I ought  not  to  tell 
you,  but  you  don’t  care  for  Dinah — she  hoped  you  wouldn’t 
make  a fool  of  yourself.  Frederic,  do  you  love  Isabel 
Huntington?” 

“Yes,”  dropped  involuntarily  from  the  young  man’s  lips, 
for  there  was  something  about  that  old  little  child  which 
wrung*  the  truth  from  him. 

“Did  you  love  her  before  you  married  Marian?” 

“Yes,”  he  said  again,  for  he  could  not  help  himself. 

There  was  silence  a moment,  and  then  Alice,  who  had  been 
thinking  of  what  he  told  her  once  before,  said,  interrogatively: 
“Marian  found  it  out,  and  that  was  why  she  thought  you 
didn’t  love  her,  and  went  away?” 

“That  was  one  reason,  but  not  the  principal  one.”* 

“Do  you  think  Isabel  as  good  as  Marian  ?” 

“No,  not  as  good — not  as  good,”  and  Frederic  was  glad 
that  he  could  pay  this  tribute  to  the  lost  one. 

After  a moment  Alice  spoke  again: 

“Frederic,  do  you  believe  Marian  is  dead?” 

“I  have  always  thought  so,”  he  answered,  and  Alice  replied: 
“But  you  don’t  know  for  certain;  and  I want  >ou  to  promise 
that  until  you  do  you  won’t  make  love  to  Isabel,  nor  marry 
ner,  nor  anybody  else,  will  you,  Frederic?”  and  putting  both 


67 


MARIAN  GREY 

er  little  hands  upon  his  forehead,  she  pushed  back  his  hair 
nd  waited  for  his  answer. 

Many  times  the  young  man  had  made  that  resolution,  but 
he  idea  of  thus  promising  to  another  was  unpleasant,  and  he 
esitated  for  a time ; then  he  said : 

“Suppose  we  never  can  know  for  certain — would  you  have 
:ie  live  all  my  life  alone?” 

“No,”  said  Alice,  “and  you  needn t,  either ; but  Id  wait 
ver  so  long,  ten  years,  anyway,  and  before  that  time  she’ll 
ome,  I’m  sure.  Dinah  says  maybe  she  will,  and  that  perhaps 
re  shan’t  know  her,  she’ll  be  so  changed — so  handsome,  and 
s if  the  power  of  prophecy  were  on  her,  Alice  pictured  a 
ieautiful  woman  who  might  come  to  them  sometime  as  their 
ost  Marian,  and  Frederic,  listening  to  her,  felt  more  willing 
o promise  than  he  had  before. 

A glow  of  hope  was  kindled  within  his  own  bosom,  and 
rhen  she  finished,  he  said  to  her : 

“I  will  wait,  Alice — wait  ten  years  for  Marian.” 

As  to  Marian,  strong  excitement  had  worn  her  strength 
.way,  and  since  she  had  sent  the  letter  to  Frederic,  her  rest- 
ess  anxiety  for  the  answer  made  her  so  weak  that  she  kept 
ier  bed  nearly  all  the  time,  counting  the  days  which  must 
lapse  ere  she  could  possibly  hope  to  hear,  and  then,  when  the 
ull  time  was  out,  bidding  Mrs.  Burt  to  wait  one  more  day  be- 
ore  she  went  to  the  office,  so  as  to  be  sure  and  get  it.  She 
iad  made  due  allowance  for  delays,  and  now  she  was  certain 
hat  it  had  come.  She  would  sit  up  that  day,  she  said,  for  she 
elt  almost  well ; and  if  Frederic  told  her  to  come  home,  she 
hould  start  tomorrow  and  get  there  Saturday  night,  and  she 
fancied  how  people  would  stare  at  her,  and  be  glad  to  see  her, 
oo,  on  Sunday,  when  she  first  went  into  church,  for  she 
‘should  go,  anyway.” 

Exchanging  her  working  dress  for  a more  respectable  de- 
aine,  Mrs.  Burt  put  over  the  kettle  to  boil,  “for  after  her 
valk,  she  should  want  a cup  of  tea,”  she  said,  and,  leaving 
Vlarian  to  watch  a pie  baking  in  the  oven,  she  started  on  her 
irrand. 

“A  letter— oh,  have  you  a letter  for  me  ?”  she  attempted  to 
;ay,  when  Mrs.  Burt  came  in,  but  she  could  not  articulate  a 
.vord,  and  the  good  lady,  wishing  to  tease  her  a little,  leisurely 
ook  off  her  overshoes,  hung  up  her  shawl,  and  then  said,  as 
ndifferently  as  if  the  happiness  of  a young  life  was  not  to  be 
mushed  by  what  she  had  in  her  pocket,  “It  rains  awfully 
iown  street!” 


68 


MARIAN  GREY 


“I  know — but  the  letter — was  there  a letter  ?"  and  Marian's 
blue  eyes  looked  dark  with  her  excitement.  “Yes,  child,  there 
was,  but  where  'twas  mailed  I don't  know.  'Tis  directed  to 
me,  and  is  from  Kentucky,  but  I can’t  make  out  the  postmark 
more’n  the  dead.  It's  some  kind  of  forks,  but  that  postmaster 
never  set  the  Hudson  afire  with  his  writing." 

“Forks  of  Elkhorn,"  cried  Marian,  snatching  at  the  letter, 
“It's  Frederic's  superscription,  too,  and  dated  ever  so  many 
days  ago.  Dear  Frederic,  he  didn't  wait  a minute  before  he 
wrote,"  and  she  pressed  to  her  lips  the  handwriting  of  Isabel 
Huntington ! 

The  envelope  was  torn  open — the  inclosed  sheet  was 
withdrawn,  but  about  it  there  was  a strangely  familiar  look. 
Was  there  a film  before  Marian's  eyes  ? Was  she  going  blind, 
or  did  she  recognize  her  own  letter — the  one  she  had  sent  to 
Redstone  Hall  ? It  was  the  same — for  it  said  “Dear  Frederic" 
at  the  top,  and  “Marian"  at  the  bottom ! And  he  had  returned 
it  to  her  unanswered — not  a word — not  a line — nothing  but 
silence,  as  cold,  as  hard,  and  as  terrible  as  the  feeling  settling 
down  on  Marian's  heart.  But  yes — there  was  one  line — only 
one,  and  it  read,  oh,  horror,  could  it  be  that  he  would  mock 
her  thus— that  he  would  tear  her  bleeding  heart  and  trample  it 
beneath  his  feet,  by  offering  her  this  cruel  insult : 

“Isabel  Huntington  is  now  the  mistress  of  Redstone  Hall." 

This  was  the  drop  in  the  brimming  bucket,  and  if  she  had 
suffered  death  when  the  great  sorrow  came  upon  her  once  be- 
fore, she  suffered  more  now  a hundredfold.  In  her  ignorance  she 
fancied  they  were  married,  for  how  else  could  Isabel  be  mistress 
there,  and  she  comprehended  at  once  the  shame — the  disgrace 
such  a proceeding  would  bring  to  Frederic,  and  the  wrong,  the 
dishonor,  the  insult  it  brought  to  her.  There  was  a look  of 
anguish  in  her  eye  and  a painful  contraction  of  the  muscles 
about  her  mouth.  There  were  purple  spots  upon  her  flesh, 
which  seemed  wasting  away  even  while  she  sat  there,  and  a 
note  of  agony,  rarely  heard  by  human  ear,  was  in  her  voice, 
as  she  cried:  “No,  no,  no — it  is  too  soon — too  soon — any- 
thing but  that,"  and  the  little  Marian  who,  half  an  hour  be- 
fore, had  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  lay  in  the  arms  of 
Mrs.  Burt,  a white,  motionless  thing,  unconscious  of  pain,  un- 
conscious of  everything. 

Mrs.  Burt  thought  she  was  dead,  as  did  those  who  came 
at  her  loud  call,  but  the  old  physician  said  there  was  life,  add- 
ing, as  he  looked  at  the  blue,  pinched  lips  and  shrunken  face : 
“The  more's  the  pity,  for  she  has  had  some  awful  blow  and  if 
she  lives,  she’ll  probably  be  a raving  maniac." 


MARIAN  GREY 


69 


Poor  Marian!  As  time  passed  on  the  physicians  words 
seemed  likely  to  be  verified.  For  days  she  lay  in  the  same 
deathlike  stupor,  and  when  at  last  she  roused  from  it,  twas 
only  to  tear  her  hair  and  rave  in  wild  delirium.  At  first,  Mrs. 
Burt  who  had  examined  the  letter,  thought  of  writing  to 
Frederic  and  telling  him  the  result  of  his  cruel  message,  the 
truth  of  which  she  did  not  believe ; but  she  seldom  acted  with- 
out advice,  so  she  wrote  first  to  Ben,  who  came  quickly,  cry- 
ing  like  a very  child,  and  wringing  his  great  rough  hands 
when  he  saw  the  swaying,  tossing  form  upon  the  bed  and 
knew  that  it  was  Marian. 

“No,  mother,”  he  said,  “we  won't  write.  It  s a he  the  vil- 
lain told  her,  but  we  will  let  him  be  till  she’s  dead.  God  will 
find  him  fast  enough,  the  rascal !”  and  Ben  struck  his  fist 
upon  the  bureau  as  if  he  would  like  to  take  the  management 
of  Frederic  into  his  own  hands.  . 

It  was  a long  and  terrible  sickness  which  came  to  Marian, 
and  when  the  dilirium  was  on,  the  very  elements  of  her  nature 
seemed  changed.  For  her  hair  she  conceived  an  intense  loath- 
ing; and  clutching  at  her  long  tresses,  she  would  tear  them 
from  her  head  and  shake  them  from  her  fingers,  whispering 

scornfully:  , f . 

“Go,  go,  you  vile  red  things  ! He  hates  you,  he  loathes  you, 

and  so  do  I.”  . , 

Ben  stayed  patiently  by  Marian,  nor  experienced  one  ieel- 
ing  of  regret  when  he  heard  that,  owing  to  his  pro- 
longed absence,  his  place  in  Ware  had  been  given  to 


“Nobody  cares,”  he  said;  “I  can  find  something  to  do  if  it’s 
nothin’  but  sawin’  wood.” 

And  when  the  winter  snows  were  all  fallen,  and  the  early 
March  sun  shone  upon  the  kitchen  walls,  Marian  awoke  at 
last  to  consciousness.  She  was  out  of  danger,  the  physician 
said,  though  it  might  be  long  ere  her  health  was  fully  restored. 
To  Marian,  this  announcement  brought  but  little  joy.  “She 
had  hoped  to  die,”  she  said,  “and  thus  be  out  of  the  way,” 
and  then  she  spoke  of  Redstone  Hall,  asking  if  any  tidings 
had  come  from  there  since  the  dreadful  message  she  had  re- 
ceived. There  was  none,  for  Isabel  Huntington  guarded  her 
secret  well,  and  Frederic  Raymond  knew  nothing  of  the  white, 
emaciated  wreck  which  prayed  each  day  that  he  might  be 
happy  with  the  companion  he  had  chosen. 

“If  he  had  only  waited,”  she  said  to  Mrs.  Burt  and.  Ben 
one  day  when  she  was  able  to  be  bolstered  up  in  bed,  “if  he 
had  waited  and  not  taken  her  so  soon  I shouldn’t  care  so 


70 


MARIAN  GREY 


wrote  that  ‘letten’^1  t0  th'nk  °f  h‘S  Hving  with  her  after  1 
‘‘Marian,”  said  Ben,  a little  impatiently,  “I’m  naturally  a 
fool  so  everybody  says,  but  I’ve  sense  enough  to  know  that 
iVLl . Kavnmnn  ^ .-i a ~ a . 


no  business  with  two  wives/ 

Marian’s  face  was  whiter  than  ever  when  Ben  finished 
speaking,  and  a bright  red  spot  burned  on  her  cheek  as  she 
g^pecl:  You  dont  you  can’t  believe  she’s  there,  and  not  his 

W1(Y-  That  would  be  worse  than  anything  else.” 

a ind0n’V nretUl;ned  Ben/  ’Pinion  is  that  she 
am  t there  at  all,  and  he  only  writ  that  to  make  a clean  finish 

k m0l\°r  ^ rate’  ,so,t  y°u  wouldn’t  be  cornin’  back  to 

bother  him.  He  calkerlates  to  have  her  bimeby,  I presume 

say  in  seven  years.”  F 

“Oh,  I wish  I knew,”  said  Marian,  and  Ben  replied,  “would 
you  rest  any  easier  nights  if  you  did?” 

“Yes,  a heap,”  was  the  answer,  and  the  great  blue  eyes 
looked  wistfully  at  Ben,  as  if  anxious  that  he  should  clear  up 
the  mystery.  F 

“You  might  write,”  suggested  Mrs.  Burt;  but  Marian  shook 
her  head,  saying,  “I  wrote  once,  and  you  know  my  success.” 
You  certainly  wouldn’t  go  back,”  continued  Mrs.  BurY  and 
Marian  answered  indignantly:  “Never!  I am  sure  he  hates 
me  now,  and  I shall  not  trouble  him  again.  Perhaps  he  thinks 
me  mean  because  I read  the  letter  intended  for  him,  and  so 
found  it  all  out.  But  I thought  it  was  mine  until  I read  a 
ways,  and  then  I could  not  stop.  My  eyes  wouldn’t  leave  the 
paper.  Was  it  wrong  in  me,  do  you  think?” 

It  is  what  anybody  would  have  done,”  answered  Mrs.  Burt 
and,  changing  the  subject  entirely,  Marian  rejoined,  “Oh  I 
do  wish  I knew  about  this  Isabel.” 

For  a time  Ben  sat  thinking;  then  striking  his  hands  to- 
gether he  exclaimed : “I’ve  got  it,  and  it’s  jest  the  thing,  too  ; 
I don  t want  no  better  fun  than  that.  I’ve  lost  my  place  to 
Ware,  and  though  I might  get  another,  I’ve  a notion  to  turn 
peddler.  I alius  thought  I should  like  travelin’  and  seein’  the 
p™,1,  1 !*  b“y  uPa  3ot  of  jimcracks  and  take  a bee  line  for 

Kedstone  Hall,  and  learn  jest  how  the  matter  stands.  I can 
put  on  a little  more  of  the  Down  East  Yankee,  if  you  think  I 
ham  t got  enough,  and  Til  pull  the  wool  over  their  eyes.  What 
do  you  say,  wee  one?” 

“Oh,  I wish  you  would,”  said  Marian,  adding  in  the  same 


MARIAN  GREY 


71 


breath,  “What  will  you  do,  if  you  find  him  the  husband  of 

IS -Do!”  he  repeated.  “String  ’em  both  up  by  the  neck  on  one 
string  What  do  you  ’spect  I’d  do?  Honest,  though,  he  con- 
tinued as  he  saw  her  look  of  alarm;  “if  she  is  his  wife,  which 
ain’t  at  all  likely,  ’tis  because  he  s’posed  you  re  dead,  but  he 
knows  better  now,  and  I shall  tell  the  neighbors  that  you  re 
alive  and  breathin’,  and  they  can  do  with  him  what  they 
choose— and  if  they  ain’t  married,  nor  aint  nothin,  111  do 

^eS“Come  backhand  don’t  tell  Frederic  you  ever  saw  or  heard 
of  me  ” said  Marian.  “I  shall  not  live  a great  while,  and  ev<_n 
if  I do  I’d  rather  not  trouble  him.  It  would  only  make  him 
hate  me  worse,  and  that  I couldn’t  bear.  He  knows  now 
where  I am,  and  if  he  ever  wants  me,  he  will  come.  Don  t 
tell  him,  nor  anyone,  a word  of  me,  Ben,  but  do  go,  for  I long 

t0  To  Mrs.  Burt  this  project  seemed  a wild  and  foolish  one, 
but  she  rarely  opposed  her  son,  and  when  she  saw  that  he  was 
determined,  she  said  nothing,  but  helped  him  a11  she  cou!d. 

“You’ll  be  wantin’  to  send  some  jimcrack  to  that  blind  bal, 

I guess,”  he  said  to  Marian  one  day,  and  she  replied : I wish 

I could,  but  I haven’t  anything,  and  besides  you  mustnt  tell 

^“Don’t  you  worry,”  answered  Ben.  “I’ve  passed  my  word, 
and  I never  broke  it  yet.  I can  manage  to  give  her  somethin 
and  make  it  seem  natural.  What  do  you  say  to  makin  her  a 
bracelet  out  o’  them  curls  of  yourn  that  we  shaved  off  when 

vou  were  sick  ?”  . „ A 

“That  red  hair!  Frederic  would  know  it  at  once,  and 
Marian  shook  her  head  ruefully,  but  Ben  persisted.  1 would 
look  real  pretty,  just  like  gingerbread  when  twas  braided 
tight,”  and  bringing  out  the  curls,  he  selected  the  longest  one, 

and  hurried  off.  . , 

The  result  proved  his  words  correct,  for  when  a few  days 
after  he  brought  home  the  little  bracelet,  which  was  fastened 
with  a neat  golden  clasp,  Marian  exclaimed  with  delight  at  the 
soft  beauty  of  her  hair.  . . ((T 

“Darling  Alice,”  she  cried,  kissing  the  tiny  ornaments,  1 
wish  she  could  know  that  my  lips  have  touched  it  that  it  once 
grew  on  my  head — but  it  wouldn’t  be  best.  She  couldn  t keep 
the  secret,  and  you  mustn’t  tell.”  . 

“Don’t  worry,  I say,”  returned  Ben.  I ve  got  an  idee  m 
my  brains  for  a wonder,  and  I’m  jest  as  ’fraid  of  tellin  as  you 
be.  So  cheer  up  a bit  and  grow  fat,  while  I’m  gone,  for  i 


72 


MARIAN  GREY 


wattf  you  to  be  well  when  I come  back,  so  as  to  go  to  school 
and  get  to  be  a great  scholar,  that  Mr.  Raymond  won’t  be 

ST  , °f  WIen  t,le  r'ght,tlme  comes,”  and  Ben  spoke  as 
cheerfully  as  if  within  his  heart  there  was  no  grave  where 
during  the  weary  nights  when  he  watched  with  Marian  he 
buried  his  love  for  her,  and  vowed  to  think  of  her  only  as  a 
cherished  sister.  y 

Marian  smiled  pleasantly  upon  him,  watching  him  with  in- 
terest as  he  made  up  his  pack,  consisting  of  laces,  ribbons, 

ntnnT’ri  h^n)('ikerch,1^ f s’  combs,  and  jewelry,  a little  real,  and 
a good  deal  brass  “fer  the  niggers,”  he  said.  Many  were  the 
charges  she  gave  him  concerning  the  blacks,  telling  him  which 
ones  to  notice  particularly,  so  as  to  report  to  hen 

Jehosiphat ! ’ he  exclaimed  at  last,  ‘‘how  many  is  there  ? I 
shall  never  remember  in  the  world,  and  taking  out  a piece  of 

PHfrT^ei1Wr0t1e^p0Kn-  V‘Din*h’  Hett>-’  Ly(1.  Victory,  Uncle 
Phd  Josh  and  the  big  dog.  There!”  said  he,  reading  over 

1 ,d°nibring  y°u  news  of  every  one,  my  name 
aint  Ben  Burt.  Ill  wiggle  myself  inter  their  good  feelin’s 
and  git  em  to  talking  of  you,  see  if  I don’t.” 

Marian  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Ben’s  success,  and 
though  she  knew  she  should  be  lonely  when  he  was  gone,  she 
was  glad  when,  at  last,  the  morning  came  for  him  to  leave 
them  Ben,  too,  was  equally  delighted,  for  the  novelty  lent  a 
double  charm  to  the  project;  and,  bidding  his  mother  and 
Marian  good-by,  he  gathered  up  his  large  boxes,  and 
whistling  a lively  tune,  by  way  of  keeping  up  his  spirits, 
started  for  Kentucky.  F 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  YANKEE  PEDDLER 


The  warm,  balmy  April  day  was  drawing  to  a close,  and  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  shone  like  burnished  gold  on  the  west- 
ern  windows  of  Redstone  Hall.  It  was  very  pleasant  there 
now,  for  the  early  spring  flowers  were  all  in  blossom,  the 
grass  was  growing  fresh  and  green  upon  the  lawn,  and  the 
creeping  vines  were  clinging  lovingly  to  the  timeworn  pillars, 
or  climbing  up  the  massive  walls  of  dark  red  stone,  which 
gave  the  place  its  name.  The  old  negroes  had  returned  from 
their  labors,  and  were  lounging  about  their  cabins,  while  the 
younger  portion  looked  wistfully  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  where 
Dinah  and  Hetty  were  busy  in  preparing  supper.  On  the 
back  piazza  several  dogs  were  lying,  and  as  their  quick  ears 
caught  the  sound  of  a gate  in  the  distance,  the  whole  pack 
started  up  and  went  tearing  down  the  avenue,  followed  by  the 
furious  yell  of  Bruno,  who  tried  in  vain  to  escape  from  his 

confinement.  , t ..  - 

“Thar’s  somebody  cornin’,3 ” said  Dinah,  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  and  looking  toward  the  highway;  “somebody 
with  somethin’  on  his  back.  You,  Josh,  go  after  them  dogs, 
afore  they  skeer  him  to  death.” 

Stuttering  out  some  unintelligible  speech,  Josh  started  in  the 
direction  the  dogs  had  gone,  and  soon  came  up  to  a tall  six- 
footer,  who,  with  short  pantaloons,  a swallow-tailed  coat,  a 
stove-pipe  hat,  sharp-pointed  collar,  red  necktie,  and  two  huge 
boxes  on  his  back,  presented  a rather  ludicrous  appearance  to 
the  boy,  and  a rather  displeasing  one  to  the  dogs,  who  growled 
angrily,  as  if  they  would  pounce  upon  him  at  once.  The  dub, 
however,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself  kept  them  at  bay, 
until  Josh  succeeded  in  quieting  them  down. 

“Ra-ally,  now,”  began  our  friend  Ben,  who  vainly  imagined 
it  necessary  to  put  on  a little,  by  way  of  proving  himself  a 
genuine  Yankee;  “ra-ally,  now,  bootblack,  what’s  the  use  of 
keepin’  sich  a ’tarnal  lot  o’  dogs  to  worry  a decent  chap  like 

me?”  , , . 11 

It  was  Josh’s  misfortune  to  stammer  much  more  when  at  all 
excited,  and  to  this  interrogatory  he  began:  “Caw-caw-caw- 

cause  ma-ma-mars  wa-wa-want — ” 

Marian  Grey  73 


74 


MARIAN  GREY 


“Great  heavens  1”  interrupted  the  Yankee,  setting  down  hi 
pack,  and  eying  the  stuttering  negro  as  if  he  had  been  the  las' 
curiosity  from  Barnum’s— “great  heavens!  will  you  tell  j 
feller  what  kind  of  language  you  speak  ?” 

Spe-pe-pe-pecas  sa-sa-sa-same  ye-e-e  you  do,”  returned  th« 
t0  lighten  Ben,  who  rejoined  indig- 
nantly  You  go  to  grass,  with  your  lingo”;  and,  Catherine 

b°iXeS’  S‘arted  /or  the  Iiouse>  accompanied  by  Josh 
and  the  dogs,  the  first  of  which  made  several  ineffectual  at- 
tempts  at  conversation. 

5::Srf  natural:bo™  f°o1’”  muttered  Ben,  thinking  to  him- 
wha/aitecHt W°Ud  exam*ne  the  boy’s  mouth  and  see 

tIA*t,er  a,  mi!\utes  they  entered  the  yard,  and  came  up  to 

^9^l  t,  b aCrf’  who  Tere  cun°usly  watching  the  newcomer. 
Seating  himself  upon  the  steps  and  crossing  one  leg  over  the 
other  Ben  swung  his  cowhide  boot  forward  and  back,  and 
them  with:  “Well,  uncles,  and  aunts,  and  cousins, 

noon?’^  y°U  an<^  ^°W  y°U  y°urse^ves  ^is  after- 

f,  “Le?  toierable.thanky,”  answered  Uncle  Phil,  and  Ben  con- 

f/  nWa  ’ huat?  1S  ^ great  b]essin’  to  them  that  hain’t 
got  it.  Do  you  calkerlate  that  I could  stay  here  tonight  ? I Ve 
got  a lot  of  gewgaws/’  pointing  to  his  boxes— “handkerchers, 

£!«  Vmrni?^S’  a?.r  a red  and  yeller  gownd  that  ’ll  jest  suit 
you,  old  gal,  nodding  to  Dinah,  who  muttered  gruffly:  “The 
Lord,  if  he  calls  me  old,  what  ’ll  he  say  to  Hetty?” 

Ben  saw  that  he  had  made  a mistake,  for  black  women  no 
more  care  to  be  old  than  their  fairer  sisters,  and  he  tried  to 
make  amends  by  complimenting  the  indignant  lady  until  she 
alf  ni^liteW^at  m°d*ded’  wben  be  asked  again  if  he  could  stay 

You,  Josh,  said  Uncle  Phil,  “go  and  tell  yer  marster  to 
come  here. 

“Whew-ew,”  whistled  Ben,  “if  you’re  goin’  to  send  that 
stutterin  critter,  I may  as  well  be  joggin’,  for  no  human  can 
make  out  his  rigmarole. 

But  Ben  was  mistaken.  Josh’s  dialect  was  well  understood 
by  l rederic,  who  came  as  requested,  and,  standing  in  the  door 
gazed  inquisitively  at  the  singular-looking  object  seated  upon 
Ins  steps,  and  apparently  oblivious  to  everything  save  the 
sliver  he  was  trying  to  extract  from  his  thumb  with  a 
thing  ”Pin’  C-'aCulating  occas>onally : “Gaul  darn  the  pesky 

Nothing,  however,  escaped  the  keen  gray  eyes  which  from 


MARIAN  GREY  75 

time  to  time  peered  out  from  beneath  the  stovepipe  hat.  Al- 
ready Ben  had  seen  that  Redstone  Hall  was  a most  beautiiul 
snot  and  he  did  not  blame  Frederic  for  disliking  to  give  it  up. 
He  had  selected  Dinah  and  Phil  from  the  other  blacks,  and 
had  said  that  the  baby  who,  with  a small  white  dog,  was 
disputing  its  right  to  a piece  of  fat  bacon  and  a chicken  bone, 
was  Victoria  Eugenia.  Josh  he  identified  by  his  name,  and  he 
was  wondering  at  Marian’s  taste  in  caring  to  hear  Irom  him, 
when  Frederic  appeared,  and  all  else  was  forgotten  in  his 
eagerness  to  inspect  the  man  “who  could  make  a gal  bite  her 
tongue  in  two  and  yank  her  hair  out  by  the  roots,  all  for  the 

love  of  him.”  . 

Frederic  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  commence  a conversation 
and  during  the  minute  that  he  stood  there  without  speaking 
Ben  had  ample  time  to  take  him  in  from  his  brown  hair  and 
graceful  mustache  down  to  his  polished  boots. 

“Got  up  in  consider’ble  kind  of  good  style,”  was  Ben  s men- 
tal comment,  as  he  watched  the  young  man  carelessiy  scrap- 
ing his  finger  nail  with  a penknife. 

“Did  you  wish  to  see  me?”  Frederic  said  at  last,  and  with 
another  thrust  at  the  sliver,  Ben  stuck  his  pin  upon  his  coat 
sleeve,  and,  reversing  the  position  of  his  legs,  replied: 
“Wall,  if  you’re  the  boss,  I guess  I dew ; I’m  Ben  Butter- 
worth  from  Down  East,  and  I’ve  got  belated,  and  bein’  there 
ain’t  no  taverns  near  I want  to  stay  all  night,  and  pay  in 
money  or  notions.  Got  a lot  on  ’em,  besides  some  tiptop  mus- 
! lin  collars  for  your  wife,  Mrs.  What-Do-You-Call-Her . 
and  the  gray  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  the  face,  which 
for  a single  instant  was  white  as  marble — then  the  hot  blood 
came  rushing  back,  and  Frederic  replied:  “There  is  no  wife 

here,  sir,  but  you  can  stay  all  night  if  you  please.  Will  you 
walk  in  ?”  and  he  led  the  way  to  the  sitting  room,  followed  by 
by  Ben,  who  had  obtained  what  to  him  was  the  most  import- 
ant information  of  all. 

The  night  was  chilly,  and  in  the  grate  a cheerful  coal  fire 
was  burning,  casting  its  ruddy  light  upon  the  face  of  a little 
girl,  who,  seated  upon  a stool,  with  her  fair  hair  combed  back 
from  her  sweet  face,  her  waxen  hands  folded  together  and  her 
strange  brown  eyes  fixed  upon  the  coals  as  if  she  were  look- 
ing at  something  far  beyond  them,  seemed  to  Ben  like  what  he 
had  fancied  angels  in  heaven  to  be.  It  was  not  needful  for 
Mr.  Raymond  to  say,  “Alice,  here  is  a peddlar  come  to  stay 
all  night,”  for  Ben  knew  it  was  the  blind  girl,  and  his  heart 
gave  a great  throb  when  he  saw  her  sitting  there  so  beautiful, 
so  helpless  and  so  lonely,  too,  for  he  almost  knew  that  she  was 


76 


MARIAN  GREY 


thmlcing  of  Marian,  and  he  longed  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  tell  her  of  the  lost  one. 

Motioning  him  to  a chair,  Frederic  went  out,  leaving  them 
together.  For  some  minutes  there  was  perfect  silence,  while 
Ben  sat  looking  at  her  and  trying  hard  to  keep  from  crying. 
It  seemed  terrible  to  him  that  one  so  young  should  be  blind* 
Jind  he  wanted  to  tell  her  so,  but  he  dared  not,  and  he  sat  so 
Still  that  Alice  began  to  think  she  was  alone,  and,  resuming 
her  former  thoughts,  whispered  softly  to  herself:  “Oh  I wish 
she  would  come  back.” 

“Blessed  baby,”  Ben  had  almost  ejaculated,  but  he  checked 
himself  in  time  and  said  instead,  “little  gal.” 

Alice  started,  and  turning  her  ear,  seemed  waiting  for  him 
to  speak  again,  which  he  did  do. 

“Little  gal,  will  you  come  and  sit  in  my  lap  ?” 

His  voice  was  gentle  and  kind,  but  Alice  did  not  care  to  be 
thus  free  with  a stranger,  so  she  replied:  “I  reckon  I won’t 
do  that,  but  1 11  sit  nearer  to  you,”  and  she  moved  her  stool  so 
close  to  him  that  her  head  almost  rested  on  his  lap. 

“You  must  ’scuse  me,”  she  said,  “if  I don’t  act  like  other 
children  do — I’m  blind.” 

Very  tenderly  he  smoothed  her  silken  hair,  and  as  he  did  so 
she  felt  something  drop  upon  her  forehead.  It  was  a tear,  and 
wiping  it  away,  she  said  : 

“Man,  be  you  hungry  and  tired,  or  what  makes  you  cry  ?” 
I’m  cryin’  for  you,  poor,  unfortunate  lamb”;  and  the  ten- 
der-hearted Ben  sobbed  out  aloud. 

“Oh,  I wouldn’t,  I wouldn’t,”  said  the  distressed  child— “I’m 
used  to  it.  I don’t  mind  it  now.” 

The  ice  was  fairly  broken,  and  a bond  of  sympathy  estab- 
lished between  the  two. 

“He  must  be  a good  man,”  Alice  thought;  and  when  he 
began  to  question  her  of  her  home  and  friends,  she  replied  to 
him  readily. 

“You  haven’t  no  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  a’nt,  nor  nothin’, 
but  Mr.  Raymond  and  Dinah,”  said  Ben,  after  they  had  talked 
a while.  “Ain’t  there  no  white  women  in  the  house  but  you  ?” 
“Yes,  Mrs.  Huntington  and  Isabel.  She’s  my  governess,” 
answered  Alice ; and,  conscious  of  a pang,  Ben  continued : 
“Mr.  Raymond  sent  for  ’em,  I s’pose?” 

“No,”  returned  Alice.  “They  came  without  sending  for — 
came  to  visit,  and  he  hired  them  to  stay.  Mrs.  Huntington 
keeps  house.” 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  there  was  a rustling  of 
garments  in  the  hall,  and  a splendid,  queenly  creature  swept 


MARIAN  GREY 


77 


intr>  the  room  bringing  with  her  such  an  air  of  superiority 
that  Ben  involuntarily  hitched  nearer  to  the  wall,  as  if  to  get 

ti'S-iem!  Ain’t  she  a dasher?”  was  his  mental  «- 
clatnationT  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  followed  her  mo.e- 

mSinfaaeLtmri?w“eio  th.  fire,  and,  without  deign- 
ing to  notice  the  stranger,  she  said,  rather  reprovingly: 

“Alice  come  here/*  , , 

The  child  obeyed,  and  Ben,  determined  not  to  be  ignored  en- 
tirely, said:  . 

“Prettv  well  this  evenin , miss : . 

“How^  sir?”  and  the  black  eyes  flashed  haughtily  upon 

Nothing  abashed,  he  continued : “As’t  you  if  you  re  Pretty 
well  but  no  matter,  I know  you  to  be  by  your  looks.  I ve  g 
a lot  of  finery  that  I guess  you  want,”  and,  opening  his  boxes, 
he  spread  out  upon  the  carpet  the  collars  and  undersleeves, 
which  had  been  bought  with  a view  to  this  very  night.  ^ Very 
disdainfully  Isabel  turned  away,  saying  she  never  traded  with 

P6“f  wonder  if  you  don’t,”  returned  Ben,  with  imperceptible 
pity;  “but,  seein’  it’s  me,  buy  somethin , dew,  and  he  held  up 
to7view  Marian’s  soft  hair,  which,  in  the  bright  firelight, 

^tsabefdfd  unbend  a little  now.  There  was  no  sham  about 
that  she  knew,  and  taking  it  in  her  hand,  she  tried  to  clasp 
it  on  her  round,  white  arm;  but  it  would  not  come  toge.hei. 

11  ‘if  isn’t  Targe f enough,”  said  she;  “it  must  have  been  in- 

tei‘‘ShouMn*t  wonder  if  you  hit  the  nail  right  ^^^ebby 
returned  Ben,  and  taking  the  bracelet,  he  continued  Mebby 
’twas  meant  for  this  wee  one— who  knows? 
it  on  Alice’s  slender  wrist.  “Fits  to  a T,  said  he,  a y 
must  have  it,  too.  Them  clasps  is  little  hearts,  do  you  see. 
Frederic  now  entered  the  room,  and  holding  up  her  arm, 

Alice  said:  “Look,  is  it  pretty?”  . ... 

“Yes,  very,”  he  replied,  bending  down  to  examine  it,  while 
Ben  watched  him  narrowly,  wondering  how  he  would  reel  if 
he  knew  from  whose  tresses  that  braid  was  made  ...  , 

“Harnsome  color,  ain’t  it,  square?  he  said,  holding  Alices 
hand  a little  more  to  the  light,  and  continuing : Now  there  s 

them  that  don’t  like  red  hair,  but  I swan  Ive  seen  some  that 
wan’t  so  bad.  Now  when  it  curls  kinder — wall,  like  a gim 


78 


MARIAN  GREY 


et,  you  know  I ye  got  a gal  to  hum  I call  my  sister,  and  her 
iV8',h  *hls  color  as  two  peas,  or  it  was  afore  ’twas 
shav5d;  Shes  been  awful  sick  with  heart  disorder  and  fever 
and  I tell  you,  square,  if  you’d  ’a’  seen  her  pitchin’  and  divin’’ 
and  rollin  trom  one  end  of  the  bed  t’other,  bitin’  her  ton-ue 
and, yank, n ,out  he/  hair  by  han’fuls,  I rather  guess  you’d  felt 


kinder  streaked.  It  made  a calf  of  me,  though  I didn’t  fee 

Hr)  rl  ^ Q T n Ptl  ell  A <YAf  J 1 , *11  . < 


ti  ,v  r wx  111C,  luuu^ii  i aiant  teei  so 

bad  tnen  as  when  she  got  weaker  and  lay  so  still  that  we  held 
a feather  to  her  lips  to  see  if  she  breathed  ” 

tive^hteherShe  di6?”  asked  Alice’  who  llad  been  a most  atten- 

“No,”  answered  Ben,  “she  didn’t,  and  the  thankfulest  prayer 
I ever  prayed  was  the  one  I made  in  the  buttery,  behind  the 
door,  when  the  doctor  said  she  would  git  well  ” 

Supper  was  announced,  and  'putting  up  his  muslins,  Ben 
fodowec  his  host  to  the  dining  room.  Alice,  too,  was  at  the 
table,  the  bracelet  still  upon  her  wrist,  for  she  liked  the  feeling 

0 Am  she  did  so  wish  it  was  hers.” 

“I  shall  have  to  buy  it  for  you,  I reckon,”  said  Frederic,  and 
he  inquired  its  price. 

“Wall,  now,”  returned  Ben,  “if  ’twas  anybody  but  the  little 
ttf give^t't cfher”^  d°llarS’  but  bein’  it>s  her>  f’d  kinder  like 

, Jbi.f’  boweyer,  Frederic  would  not  suffer.  Alice  could  not 
keep  it,  he  said,  unless  he  paid  for  it,  and  he  put  a half  eaele 
into  the  hand  of  the.  child,  who  offered  it  to  Ben.  For  3 
moment  the  latter  hesitated,  then  thinking  to  himself : “Darn 
’nhe  U!f?  ,If  ^arian  &°es  to  school,  and  I mean 
f«hriAo  ’ She„  l need  f !ot.of  money,  and  what  I get  out  o’  him 
to  Ahcegam’  hC  p0cketed  the  piece’  ana  the  bracelet  belonged 

. A^ter.,supper'  Ben  sat  dpwn  by  the  fire  in  the  dining  room, 
hoping  they  would  leave  him  with  Alice,  and  this  they  did  ere 
long,  Isabel  going  to  the  piano,  and  Frederic  to  the  library  to 
STZJSS’'  *«ve  son.  directs 

everbfnrkna  t-n  directions  were  merely  nominal,  how- 

Dm  ah  to  all  intents  and  purposes  was  mistress  of  the 
household,  and  she  now  came  in  to  see  to  the  supper  dishes 
which  were  soon  cleared  away;  and  Ben,  as  he  wished  was’ 
alone  with  Alice.  The  bracelet  seemed  to  be  a connecting  link 

nnlTwh  th<Tn’  f°ir  A,'Ce  Was  not  in  'cbc  least  shy  of  kirn  now, 
readily.1611  aS<ed  ^ again  t0  sit  in  his  lap’  she  did  so 

IsabeI  ts,  a dreadful  iian’some  gal,”  he  be-an  • 

1 should  s pose  Mr.  Raymond  would  fall  in  love  with  her. ' 


MARIAN  GREY 


79 


No  answer  from  Alice,  whose  sightless  eyes  looked  steadily 
ito  the  fire.  . , . 

“Mebbv  he  is  in  love  with  her  i « 

No  answer  yet,  and  mentally  chiding  himself  for  his  stupid- 
ty  in  not  striking  the  right  vein,  Ben  continued : 

“I  wonder  he  ham  t married  afore  this.  He  must  be  as 
nuch  as  twenty-five  or  six  years  old,  and  so  han  some,  too . 
“He  has  been  married,”  and  the  little  face  of  the  speaker 

h “No^you  don’tW  it !”  returned  Ben.  “A  widower,  hey? 

^ “A  kw  months,”  and  the  long  eyelashes  quivered  in  the  fire- 

Ig“I  wanAo  know — died  so  soon— poor  critter.  Tell  me  about 
ler,  dew.  You  didn’t  know  her  long,  so  I s pose  you  couldn  t 

^Th^browAeyesAashed  up  into  Ben’s  face\(¥^  ^A^ove 
rushed  to  Alice’s  cheeks,  as  she  replied:  Me  not  love 

Marian ! Oh,  I loved  her  so  much  ! t t 

The  right  chord  was  touched  at  last,  and  in  her  own  way 
Alice  told  the  sad  story — how  Marian  had  left  them  on  he 
bridal  night,  and  though  they  searched  for  her  everywhere, 
both  in  the  river  and  through  the  country,  no  trace  of  her 
could  be  found,  and  the  conviction  was  forced  upon  them  that 

“ le-ru-sa-lem ! I never  thought  of  that!”  was  Ben  s invol- 
untary exclamation;  but  it  conveyed  no  meaning  to  Alice,  and 
when  he  asked  if  they  still  believed  her  dead  she  answered. 

“1  don’t  quite  believe  Frederic  does.  I dont,  anyway.  I 
used  to,  though,  but  now  it  seems  just  like  she  wou  d come 
back,”  and  turning  her  face  more  fully  toward  him,  Alice  told 
him  how  she  had  loved  the  lost  one,  and  how  each  day  s 
prayed  that  she  might  come  home  to  them  again.  a don  t 
know  as  she  was  pretty,”  she  said,  ‘but  she  was  so  sweet,  so 
good,  and  I’m  so  lonesome  without  her,  and  down  Alice  s 
cheeks  the  big  tears  rolled,  while  Ben’s  kept  company  with 

them  and  fell  on  her  hands.  ri 

“Man,  don’t  you  cry  a heap?  she  asked,  shaking  the  round 
drops  off  and  wondering  why  a perfect  stranger  should  care 

so  much  for  Marian.  , ,,  ..  „ „ 

“I’m  so  plaguy  tender-hearted  that  I can  t help  it,  was 
Ben’s  apology,  as  he  blew  his  nose  vigorously  upon  his  blue 

cotton  handkerchief.  . -i 

For  a time  longer  he  talked  with  her,  treasuring  up  blessed 
words  of  comfort  for  the  distant  Marian,  and  learning  also 


80 


MARIAN  GREY 


that  Alice  was  sure  Frederic  would  never  marry  again  until 
certain  of  Marian  s death.  He  might  like  Isabel,  she  admitted 

b’lt  * tTuld  not  da,re  make  her  his  wife  till  he  knew  for  true 
what  had  become  of  Marian. 

hC  d°“  kn°w  ‘V  the  scented-up  puppy,”  thought  Ben. 
ft™**  that  !ast  ,nsultin  thing  to  kill  her  out  and 

do  nothin’e’’d‘dn  t C°me  and  tiU  he  knows  he  did>  hs  dassent 

Ben  then  went  down  to  the  kitchen  where  he  got  into 
friendly  conversation  with  Dinah. 

“Tlmt  little  gal,  Alice,  has  been  telling  me  about  Mr  Rav- 
monds  marriage  Unlucky,  wasn’t  he?  Shouldn’t  wonder 
though  if  he  had  kind  of  a hankerin’  after  that  black-eyed 
miss.  She  s han  some  as  a picter.”  J 

Dinah  needed  but  this  to  loosen  her  tongue.  She  had  long 
before  made  up  her  mind  that  “Isabel  was  no  kind  o’  ’count”  • 
and  once  the  two  had  come  to  open  hostilities,  Isabel  accusing 

w a < a,zy’  S°ss’Ping  m&Ser,”  while  Dinah,  in  re- 
turn, had  told  her  she  warn’t  no  better’n  she  should  be,  stick- 
ier r0*Tdafter  Marster  Frederic,  when  nobody  knew  whether 
Miss  Marian  was  dead,  or  not 

jnd^nity  was  reported  to  Frederic,  who  reproved  old 
L)mah  sharply;  whereupon,  she  turned  toward  him,  to  use  her 
favorite  expression,  “gin  him  a piece  of  her  mind  ” 

After  tins  it  was  generally  understood  that  between  Dinah 
and  Isabel  there  existed  no  very  amicable  state  of  feeling,  and 
<f^Ben  sPPke  ?f  the  latter,  the  former  exploded  at  once, 
lwas  a burnin  shame,”  she  said,  “and  it  mortified  her 
een-a-most  to  death  to  see  the  trollop  a tryin’  to  set  to  marster, 
when  nobody  knowd  for  sartin  if  his  fust  wife  was  dead.” 
Marster  s jest  as  fast  as  she,”  interposed  Hetty,  who  sel- 
dom agreed  with  Dinah. 

. A contemptuous  sneer  curled  Dinah’s  lip  as  she  said  to  Ben 
in  a whisper:  ' 

“Don;t  b’lieve  none  o’  her  trash.  Them  Higginses  alius 
would  he.  I hain’t  never  seen  Marster  Frederic  do  a single 
thing  out  o’  the  vvay,  ’cept  to  look  at  her,  jest  as  Phil  used  to 
look  at  me  when  he  was  sparkin’.  I don’t  think  that  was  very 
spectable  in  him,  to  be  sure,  but  looks  don’t  signify.  He  das- 
sent marry  her  till  he  knows  for  sartin  t’other  one  is  dead. 
He  done  told  Alice  so,  and  she  told  me”;  and  then  Dinah 
launched  out  into  praises  of  the  lost  Marian,  exalting  her  so 

Wf  B.en  t<?ssed  int0  her  lap  a pair  of  earrings  which 
she  had  greatly  admired. 

1 ake  them,  said  he,  “for  standin’  up  for  that  poor  run- 


MARIAN  GREY 


81 


iwav  I like  to  hear  one  woman  stick  to  another. 

Dmah  cast  an  exulting  glance  at  Hetty,  who,  nothing 

daunted,  came  forward  and  said:  . , 

“Miss  Marian  was  as  likely  a gal  as  thar  ^as  *n  Kentack, 
and  she,  for  one,  should  be  as  glad  to  see  her  back  as  some  o 

“Th-  Higginses  is 

^Ben'probably  thonght  so,  too,  for  he  pnid .no  attention .to 
Hettv  who  highly  indignant,  started  for  Isabel,  and  told  he 
“how  Dinah  and  that  fetch-ed  peddler  done  spilt  her  character 

en“Leave  the  room,”  was  Isabel’s  haughty  answer.  “I  am 
above  what  a poor  negro  and  an  ignorant  Yankee  can  say.^ . 

“For  the  dear  Lord’s  sake,”  muttered  the  discomfited  Hetty, 
“wonder  if  she  ain’t  a Yankee  her  own  self.  Spects  how  she 
done  forgot  whar  she  was  raised,”  and  Hetty  returned  to  t e 
kitchen  a warmer  adherent  of  Marian  than  Dinah  had  ever 

bc|he  too,  was  very  talkative  now,  and  before  nine  o’clock 
Ben  had  learned  all  that  he  expected  to  learn,  and  much  more. 
Fte”  had  ascertained  that  no  one  had  the  s i thtot t » « a of 
the  reason  why  Marian  went  away;  that  both  Frederic  ana 
Isabel  seemed  unhappy;,  that  Dinah  Hrtty,  prede^  wS 

“thar  was  somethin  warm  on  thar  minds  , , uji  ;n 

discontented  and  talked  seriously  of  leavmg  Red  tone  HaU 
the  care  of  an  overseer,  and  moving,  in  the  autumn,  to  Mis 
residence  on  the  Hudson;  that  Hetty  hoped  he  would,  and 
Dinah  hoped  he  wouldn’t—"  ’case  if  he  did,  it  would  be  next  to 
impossible  to  get  a stroke  o’  work  out  o’  them  lazy  Higginses. 

“I’ve  got  all  I come  for,  I b’lieve,”  was  Ben  s mental  co 
ment  asghe  left  the  kitchen  and  returned  to  the  dining  room 
where  he  found  Frederic  alone.  "I’ll  poke  his  ribs  a little, 
he  thought,  and,  helping  himself  to  a chair,  he  began  . 

“Wall,  square,  I’ve  been  out  seem  your  niggers.  Got  a fi  e 
lot  on  ’em  and  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  you  was  wo  th  conside 
able.  Willed  to  you  by  your  dad,  or  was  it  a kind  of  a dowry 
come  by  your  wife?  You’re  a widower,  they  say  and  the 
gray  eyes  looked  out  at  their  . corners,  as  Ben  thought,  that 

’ll  make  him  squirm,  I guess.”  . . , h 

Frederic  turned  very  white,  but  his  voice  was  natural  as  he 

rC“My  father  was  called  the  richest  man  in  the  county,  and  I 

” to  you  that  way,"  answered  Ben,  con.inning 


82 


MARIAN  GREY 


I shouldn’t  s’pose  you  could  be  hired  to 


after  a moment:  There s a big  house  up  on  the  Hudson— 

to  \ onkers— that  s been  shet  up  and  rented  at  odd  spells  for  a 
good  while  and  somebody  told  me  it  belonged  to  a Col.  Ray- 
mond, who  lived  South.  Mebby  that’s  yourn?” 

the  fall/”  retUmed  Frederic’  “and  1 exPect  now  to  there  in 
"I  want  to  know, 
leave  this  place.” 

•'I  couldn’t  be  hired  to  stay.  There  are  too  many  sad 
memories  connected  with  it,”  was  Frederic’s  answer,  and  lie 
paced  the  floor  hurriedly,  while  Ben  continued : “Mebby  you'll 
be  takin  a new  wife  there?”  ” 1 

Frederic’s  cheek  flushed,  as  he  replied: 

...  t ever  marry  again,  it  will  not  be  in  years.  Would  you 
like  to  go  to  bed,  sir  ?”  - u 

Ben  took  the  hint,  and  replying,  “I  don’t  care  if  I dew” 
followed  the  negro,  who  came  at  Frederic’s  call,  up  to  his 
room  a pleasant  comfortable  chamber,  overlooking  the  river 
and  the  surrounding  country. 

“Golly,  this  is  grand !”  said  Ben,  examining  the  different 
before3  01  Iurniture’  as  be  ha(l  never  seen  anything  like  it 

The  negro,  who  was  Lyd’s  husband,  made  no  reply;  but 
hui  rying  downstairs  to  his  mother-in-law,  he  told  her  • “Thar 
was  somethin  mighty  queer  about  that  man,  and  if  they  all  . 
tound  themselves  alive  in  the  mornin’,  lie  should  be  thankful  ” 
The  morning  dawned  at  last,  and,  with  her  fears  abated, 

miTfriJrfied  hC  SlU?\’  madC  Vie  C°ffee’  broiIed  the  ^eak, 
and  fned  the  cornmeal  batter  cakes,  which  last  were  at  first 

respectfully  declined  by  Ben,  who  admitted  that  they  “might  be 

fust-rate,  but  he  didn’t  b’lieve  they’d  set  well  on  his  stomach  ” 

.Hetty , who  v;as  waiting  upon  the  table,  quickly  divined  the 

H^°Qfffntd*rhlSpe^  t0  him’  “Lorcl  bless  >’ou-  take  some ; I 
uone  sifted  the  meal ! < 

,.  This  argument  was  conclusive,  and  helping  himself  to  the  ' 
light,  steaming  cakes,  Ben  thought,  “I  may  as  w-ell  eat  ’em  for 
tam  t no  wuss,  nor  as  bad,  as  them  Irish  gals  does  to  hum,  only  1 
1 happened  to  see  it !”  J 

Breakfast  being  over,  he  offered  to  settle  his  bill,  which  he 
found  was  nothing. 

^<?TW’,,ra  a,lly’  S(luare>”  he  said,  as  Frederic  refused  to  take 
Pay,T  fj  , ® bearn  tkat  Kentuckians  was  mighty  free-hearted 
but  1 didn  t sped  you  to  give  me  my  livin’.  I’m  much  obleeged 
to  you,  though,  and  I shall  have  more  left  to  eddicate  that  little 
sister  I was  tellin’  you  ’bout.  I mean  to  give  her  tiptop  lamin’ 


MARIAN  GREY 


to  teach  this  wee  one,” 
"The  lktlehgid "smiled ^up^into'^s  face,  and  said:  “Come 

g“wfuldnV wlndeftf  T^edup  amongst  you  some  day,” 
vas  his  answer;  and  bidding  the  family  good-by,  he  went  out 
ato  the  yard  to  Bruno’s  kennel,  for  until  this  minute  he  la 

'XS  ^ r “cS  “ uSrfiil,  while  Bruno 

•rowled  savagely  and  bounded  against  the  bars  as  if  anxious 

°^er^ghThfm>  thought  Ben,  and  shaking  hands 
vith  Uncle  Phil,  he  walked  rapidly  down  the  avenue  and  ou 

nMa^anSheWknew,  was  anxious  to  hear  of  his  success,  and 
lot  willing  to  keep  her  waiting  longer  than  w«  «« 
letermined  to  return  at  once.  Accordingly,  while  the  unsus 
feting  inmates  of  Redstone  Hall  were  discussing .his  late : visrt 
uid  singular  appearance,  he  was  on  h.s  way  to  the  depot, 
vvhere  he  took  the  first  tram  for  Frankfort,  and  \ 
sailing  down  the  Kentucky  toward  home. 


CHAPTER  X 


PLANS 

Mart  an  was  sitting  by  the  window  of  her  little  rooin,look- 
J ^t  mto  the  busy  street  below,  and  thinking  how  chffer- 
mtlv  New  York  seemed  to  her  now  from  what  * did  that 
"irearv  dav  when  she  wandered  down  Broadway,  and  wished 
w7he  could  die.  She  had  counted  the  days  of  Ben  s ab- 
;h  * and  she  knew  it  was  almost  time  for  his  return.  She 
-hd  not  expect  him  today,  however,  and  she  paid  no  attention 
■o  the  heavy  footstep  upon  the  stairs,  neither  did  she  hear  the 
creaking  of  the  doo?;  but,  when  Mrs.  Burt  eNclairned  Ben- 
jamin  Franklin!  Where  did  you  come  front;  she  started, 

^WEtfull^eagedy  Ih^lwk'ed  up  into  his"  face,  longing,  yet 

to  say,  a.  last;  and 

Ben  replied:  “Yes,  I’ve  been  to  Redstun  Ha.ll,  and  seen  the 

hull  tribe  on  ’em.  That  Josh  is  a case.  Couldn  t understand 

him  no  more  than  if  he  spoke  a furrin  tongue.  

“But  Frederic — did  you  see  him,  and  is  he  oh,  Ben,  do 
tell  me— what  you  know  I want  to  hear?  and  Marian 

trembled  with  excitement.  . . , • . 

“Wall  I will,”  answered  Ben,  dropping  into  a chair,  and 
coming  to  the  point  at  once.  “Frederic  ain’t  married  to  Isabel, 

nor  ain’t  a-goin’  to  be,  either.  . , 

“What  made  him  write  me  that  lie?  was  Marians  next 
question,  asked  so  mournfully  that  Ben  replied . 

“A  body  ’d  ’spose  you  was  sorry  it  warnt  the  trutn  ne 

Wr,T  am  so  glad  it  is  not  true,”  returned  Marian;  “but  it  hurts 
me  so  to  lose  confidence  in  one  I love.  How  does  Frederic 

l0<“White  as  a sheet  and  poor  as  a crow,”  said  Ben.  “It’s  a 
wearin’  on  him,  depend  on’t.  But  she— I tell  you , she  s 
dasher,  with  the  blackest  eyes  and  hair  I ever  seen 

“Who?”  fairly  screamed  Marian.  Who?  iSJot  Isabel. 
Oh,  Ben,’  is  Isabel  there  ?”  And  Marian  grew  as  white  as  Ben 
had  described  Frederic  to  be.  . ^ 

“Yes,  she  is,”  returned  Ben.  “She  s pretendm  to  teach  that 

Marian  Grey  80 


86  MARIAN  GREY 


blind  gal,  but  Frederic  ain't  makin’  love  to  her — no  such  tiling 
So  don't  go  to  faintin'  away,  and  I’ll  begin  at  the  beginnir 
and  tell  you  the  hull  story.” 

Thus  reassured,  Marian  composed  herself  and  listener 
while  Ben  narrated  every  particular  of  his  recent  visit  to  Red 
stone  Hall. 

Whatever  Ben  undertook  he  was  sure  to  accomplish  in  th 
shortest  possible  time,  and  before  starting  upon  another  peddlinj 
excursion,  the  name  of  “Marian  Grey”  was  enrolled  amoni 
the  list  of  pupils  who  attended  Madam  Harcourt’s  school.  A 
first  she  was  subject  to  many  annoyances,  for,  as  was  quit 
natural,  her  companions  inquired  concerning  her  standing,  an« 
when  they  learned  that  her  aunt  was  a sewing  woman,  an< 
that  the  queer,  awkward  fellow  who  came  with  her  the  firs 
day  was  her  cousin  and  a peddler,  they  treated  her  slightingly 
and  laughed  at  her  plain  dress.  But  Marian  did  not  care 
One  thought — one  feeling  alone  actuated  her,  to  make  hersel 
something  of  which  Frederic  Raymond  should  not  be  ashame< 
was  her  aim,  and  for  this  she  studied  early  and  late,  winning 
golden  laurels  in  the  opinion  of  her  teachers,  and  coming  er< 
long  to  be  respected  and  loved  by  her  companions 
who  little  suspected  that  she  was  the  heiress  of  untok 
wealth. 

Thus  the  summer  and  a part  of  the  autumn  passed  away 
and  when  the  semi-annual  examination  came,  Marian  Gre; 
stood  first  in  all  her  classes,  acquitting  herself  so  creditably 
and  receiving  so  much  praise,  that  Ben,  who  chanced  to  h 
present,  was  perfectly  overjoyed,  and  evinced  his  pleasure  b] 
shedding  tears,  his  usual  way  of  expressing  feeling. 

From  this  time  forward  Marian's  progress  was  rapid,  unti 
even  she  herself  wondered  how  it  were  possible  for  her  t< 
learn  so  fast  when  she  had  formerly  cared  so  little  for  books 
Hope,  and  a joyful  anticipation  of  what  would  possibly  be 
hers  in  the  future,  kept  her  up  and  helped  her  to  endure  th< 
mental  labors  which  might  otherwise  have  overtaxed  heS 
strength.  Gradually,  too,  the  old  soreness  at  her  heart  worf 
away,  and  she  recovered,  in  a measure,  her  former  lights 
heartedness,  until  at  last  her  merry  laugh  was  often  hearc 
ringing  out  loud  and  clear,  just  as  it  used  to  do  at  home  ir 
days  gone  by.  Very  anxiously  Ben  watched  her,  and  wher 
on  his  return  from  his  excursions  he  found  her,  as  he  always 
did,  improved  in  looks  and  spirits,  he  rubbed  his  hands  to- 
gether and  whispered  to  himself.  “She’ll  set  up  for  a beauty 
yet,  and  no  mistake.  That  hair  of  her'n  is  growin'  a splendid 
color.” 


MARIAN  GREY 


87 


Toward  the  last  of  November,  Ben,  who  found  hl®  P^mg 
took  a trio  through  Western  New  York,  and  did  not 
•eturn  until  February,  when,  somewhat  to  his  i ' s annoy- 
mce  he  brought  a sick  stranger  with  him.  He  had  taken  the 
ars’at  Albany  where  he  met  with  the  stranger,  who  offered 
Tm  a part This  seat  and  made  himself  so  generally - agree, 
ible  that  Ben’s  susceptible  heart  warmed  toward  him  at  once, 
lbl,e  ““  J w npear  New  York,  the  man  grew  rapidiy 
vorse  Ben’s  sympathy  was  aroused,  and  learning  that  he  had 

io  friends  in  the  city,  he  urged  him  so  strongly  to  accompany 
10  trienas  mi  h j mvitation  was  ac- 

"™ji° Zd  the  more SadS,  ^haps.  as  the  stranger's  pocket 
SterpkkrfTllbany,  itil  he  had  nothing  left  except  hts 
ticket  to  New  York.  This  reason  was  not  very  satisfactory  to 
Mrs  Burt,  who  from  the  first  had  disliked  their  visi tor  s ap- 
nearance.  He  was  a powerfully  built  young  man,  with  hlack, 
bushy  hair,  and  restless,  rolling  eyes,  which  seemed  ever  or 
the  alert  to  discover  something  not  intended  for  them  to  see- 
His  face  wore °a  hard,  dissipated  look;  and  when  Mrs  Burt 
2w  how  soon!  after  seating  himself  before  the  warm  fire  he 
fell  asleep  she  rightly  conjectured  that  a fit  of  drunkenness 
had  Sen  the  cause  of  his  illness.  Still,  lie  was  their  guest, 
and  she  would  not  treat  him  uncivilly,  so  she  bade  her  son 
take  him  to  his  room,  where  he  lay  in  the  same  deep,  stupid 
sleep  breathing  so  loudly  that  he  could  be  plainly  heard  in  the 
adjoining  room,  where  Marian  and  Ben  were  talking  of  the 
house  at* Yonkers  which  was  not  finished  yet,  and  would  not 
be  ready  for  the  family  until  some  time  in  May. 

Suddenly  the  loud  breathing  in  the  bedroom  ceased  the 
stranger  was  waking  up;  but  Ben  and  Marian  paid  no  heed, 
and  talked  on  freely  as  if  there  were  no  greedy  ears  drinking 
in  each  word  they  said— no  wild-eyed  man  leaning  on  his 
elbow  and  putting  together,  link  by  link,  tliectacf  mys . ery 
until  it  was  as  clear  to  him  as  noonday.  The  first  sentence 
which  he  heard  distinctly  sobered  him  at  once.  It  was  Marian 
who  spoke,  and  the  words  she  said  were:  “I  wonder  if  Isabel 
Huntington  will  come  with  Frederic  to  Yonkers. 

“Isabel!”  the  stranger  gasped.  “What  do  they  know  o 
her And  sitting  up  in  bed,  he  listened  until  he  learned  what 
they  knew  of  her,  and  learned,  too,  that  the  young  gir  whom 
Ben  Burt  called  his  cousin  was  the  runaway  bride  from  Kea 

St°Fkrcely  the  black  eyes  flashed  through  the  darkness,  and 
the  fists  smote  angrily  together  as  the  stranger  hoarsely  whis- 
pered : 


88 


MARIAN  GREY 


“The  time  I’ve  waited  for  has  come  at  last,  and  the  proud 
shall  be  humbled  in  the  very  dust !” 

It  was  Rudolph  McVicar  who  thus  threatened  evil  to  Isabel 
Huntington.  He  had  loved  her  once,  but  her  scornful  refusal 
of  him,  even  after  she  was  his  promised  wife,  had  turned  his 
love  to  hate,  and  he  had  sworn  to  avenge  the  wrong  should  a 
good  chance  ever  occur.  He  knew  that  she  was  in  Kentucky 
— a teacher  at  Redstone  Hall — and  for  a time  he  had  expected 
to  hear  of  her  marriage  with  the  heir,  but  this  intelligence  did 
not  come,  and  weary  of  New  Haven,  he  at  last  made  a trip 
to  New  Orleans,  determining  on  his  way  back  to  stop  for  a 
time  in  the  neighborhood  of  Redstone  Hall,  and  if  possible 
learn  the  reason  why  Isabel  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  securing 
Frederic  Raymond.  On  the  boat  in  which  he  took  passage 
on  his  return  were  three  of  four  young  people  from  Franklin 
County,  and  among  them  Agnes  Gibson  and  her  brother. 
They  were  a very  merry  party,  and  at  once  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  Rudolph,  who,  learning  that  they  were  from  the  vicin- 
ity of  Frankfort,  hovered  around  them,  hoping  that  by  some 
chance  he  might  hear  them  speak  of  Isabel.  Nor  was  he  dis- 
appointed; for  one  afternoon  when  they  were  assembled  upon 
the  upper  deck,  one  of  their  number  who  lived  in  Lexington, 
and  who  had  been  absent  in  California  for  nearly  two  years, 
inquired  after  Frederic  Raymond,  whom  he  had  formerly  met 
at  school. 

“Why,”  returned  the  loquacious  Agnes,  “did  no  one  write 
that  news  to  you?”  and  oblivious  entirely  of  Rudolph  Mc- 
Vicar, who  at  a little  distance  was  listening  attentively,  she 
told  the  story  of  Frederic’s  strange  marriage  and  its  sad  de- 
nouement. Isabel,  too,  was  freely  discussed,  Miss  Agnes  say- 
ing that  Mr.  Raymond  would  undoubtedly  marry  her,  could  he 
know  that  Marian  was  dead,  but  as  there  was  some  who  en- 
tertained doubts  upon  that  point  he  would  hardly  dare  to  take 
any  decisive  step  until  uncertainty  was  made  sure. 

“When  Miss  Huntington  first  came  to  Redstone  Hall,”  con- 
tinued Agnes,  “she  took  no  pains  whatever  to  conceal  her 
preference  for  Mr.  Raymond;  but  latterly  a change  has  come 
over  her,  and  she  hardly  appears  like  the  same  girl.  There 
seems  to  be  something  on  her  mind,  though  what  it  is  I have 
never  been  able  to  learn,  which  is  a little  strange,  considering 
that  she  tells  me  everything.” 

Not  a word  of  all  this  story  was  lost  by  McVicar.  There 
was  no  reason  now  for  his  leaving  the  boat  at  Louisville.  He 
knew  why  Isabel  was  not  a bride,  and  secretly  exulting  as  he 
thought  of  her  weary  restlessness,  he  kept  on  his  way  till  he 


MARIAN  GREY 


89 


Cached  Albany,  where  a debauch  of  a few  days  was  succeeded 
y the  sickness  which  had  awakened  the  sympathy  of  the  ten- 
er-hearted  Ben,  and  induced  the  latter  to  offer  him  shelter 
!or  the  night.  He  was  glad  of  it  now — glad  that  he  had 
ieen  drunk  and  met  with  Ben,  for  by  that  means  he  had  dis- 
overed  the  hiding  place  of  Frederic  Raymond’s  wife.  He  did 
iot  know  of  her  fortune,  but  he  knew  that  she  was  Marian 
dndsey ; that  accidentally,  as  he  supposed,  she  had  stumbled 
tpon  Mrs.  Burt  and  Ben,  who  were  keeping  her  secret  from 
he  world,  and  that  was  enough  for  him.  That  Isabel  had 
iomething  to  do  with  her  he  was  sure,  and  long  after  the  con- 
rersation  in  the  next  room  had  ceased,  he  lay  awake  thinking 
jvhat  use  he  should  make  of  his  knowledge,  and  still  not  betray 
hose  who  had  befriended  him. 

Rudolph  McVicar  was  an  adept  in  cunning,  and  before  the 
norning  dawned  he  had  formed  a plan  by  which  he  hoped  to 
:rush  the  haughty  Isabel.  Assuming  an  air  of  indifference  to 
everything  around  him,  he  sauntered  out  to  breakfast  and  pre- 
ended to  eat,  while  his  eyes  rested  almost  constantly  on 
Marian.  She  was  very  young,  he  thought,  and  far  prettier 
han  Agnes  Gibson  had  represented  her  to  be.  She  was 
changing  in  her  looks,  he  said,  and  two  or  three  years  would 
dpen  her  into  a beautiful  woman  of  whom  Frederic  Raymond 
would  be.  proud.  Much  he  wished  he  knew  why  she  had  left 
Redstone  Hall,  but  as  this  knowledge  was  beyond  his  reach,  he 
contented  himself  with  knowing  who  she  was,  and  after  break- 
fast was  over,  he-thanked  his  new  acquaintances  for  their  hos- 
pitality, and  went  out  into  the  city,  going  first  to  a pawn- 
broker’s, where  he  left  his  watch,  receiving  m exchange  money 
enough  to  defray  his  expenses  in  the  city  for  several  days. 

That  night  in  a private  room  at  the  St.  Nicholas,  he  sat 
alone,  bending  over  a letter,  which,  when  finished,  bore  a very 
fair  resemblance  to  an  uneducated  woman  s handwriting,  and 
which  read  as  follows : 

“M.  Raymond  : I now  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  inform  you 
that  A young  Woman,  calling  herself  Marian  lindsey  has  ben 
staying  with  me  awhile  And  she  said  you  was  her  Husband 
what  she  came  of  and  left  you  for  I dont  know  and  I spose  its 
none  of  my  Bizness  all  I have  to  do  is  to  tell  you  that  she 
died  wun  week  ago  come  Sunday  with  the  canker-rash  and  she 
made  me  Promise  to  rite  and  tell  you  she  was  ded  and  that  she 
forgives  you  all  your  Sins  and  hope  you  wouldn’t  wate  long 
before  you  marred  agen  it  would  of  done  your  Hart  good  to 
heard  her  tauk  like  a Sante  as  she  did.  i should  of  writ 


90 


MARIAN  GREY 


sooner  only  her  sicnes  hindered  me  about  gettin  reddy  for  a 
journey  ime  goin  to  take  my  only  Brother  lives  in  Scotland 
and  ime  goin  out  to  live  with  him  i was  most  reddy  when 
Marian  took  sick  if  she  had  lived  she  was  comin  back  to  you  I 

beleave  and  now  that  shes  ded  ime  goin  rite  of  in  the 

which  sales  tomorrough  nite  else  ide  ask  you  to  come  down 
and  see  where  she  died  and  all  about  it.  i made  her  as  com- 
fitable  as  I could  and  hoping  you  wouldn’t  take  it  to  hard  for 
Deth  is  the  lot  of  all  i am  your  most  Humble  Servant 

“Sarah  Green.” 

“There,”  soliloquized  Rudolph,  reading  over  the  letter. 
“That  covers  the  whole  ground,  and  still  gives  him  no  clew  in 

case  he  should  come  to  New  York.  The does  sail  the 

very  day  I have  named,  and  though  ‘Sarah  Green’  may  not  be 
among  her  passengers,  it  answers  my  purpose  quite  as  well. 
I believe  I’ve  steered  clear  of  all  doubtful  points  which  might 
lead  him  to  suspect  a forgery.  He  knows  Marian  would  not 
attempt  to  deceive  him  thus,  and  he  will,  undoubtedly,  think 
old  Mrs.  Green  some  good,  pious  soul,  who  dosed  the  patient 
with  saffron  tea,  and  then  saw  her  decently  interred ! He’ll 
have  a nice  time  hunting  up  her  grave  if  he  should  undertake 
that.  But  he  won't — he’ll  be  pleased  enough  to  know  that  he 
is  free,  for  by  all  accounts  he  didn’t  love  her  much,  and  in 
less  than  six  weeks  he’ll  be  engaged  to  Isabel.  But  I’ll  be  on 
their  track.  I’ll  watch  them  narrowly,  and  when  the  day  is 
set,  and  the  guests  are  there,  one  will  go  unbidden  to  the  mar- 
riage feast,  and  the  story  that  uninvited  guest  can  tell  will 
humble  the  proud  beauty  to  the  dust.  He  will  tell  her  that  this 
letter  was  a forgery,  and  Sarah  Green  a myth;  that  Marian 
Lindsey  lives,  and  Frederic  Raymond,  if  he  takes  another 
wife,  can  be  indicted  for  bigamy;  and  when  he  sees  her  eyes 
flash  fire,  and  her  cheek  grow  pale  with  rage  and  disappoint- 
ment, Rudolph  McVicar  will  be  avenged.” 

This,  then,  was  the  plan  which  Rudolph  had  formed,  and, 
without  wavering  for  an  instant  in  his  purpose,  he  sealed  the 
letter,  and,  directing  it  to  Frederic,  sent  it  on  its  way,  going; 
himself  the  next  morning  to  New  Haven,  where  he  had  some 
money  deposited  in  the  bank.  This  he  withdrew,  and  after  a 
few  days  started  for  Lexington,  where  he  intended  to  remain, 
and  watch  the  proceedings  at  Redstone  Hall,  until  the  denoue- 
ment of  his  plot. 


CHAPTER  XI 
the  effect 


Not  quite  one  year  has  passed  away  since  the  warm  spring 
Vht  when  Ben  Burt  first  strolled  leisurely  up  the  long  avenue 
jading  to  Redstone  Hall.  It  was  April  then,  and  the  early 
lowers  were  in  bloom,  but  now  the  chill  March  winds  are 
>lowing,  and  the  brown  stocks  of  the  tall  rosetree  brush 
.gainst  the  window,  from  which  a single  light  streams  out  into 
he  darkness.  It  is  the  window  of  the  little  library  where  we 
lave  seen  Frederic  before,  and  where  we  meet  him  once  again, 
le  has  changed  somewhat  since  we  saw  him  last,  and  there  is 
ipon  his  face  a sad,  thoughtful  expression,  as  if  far  down  in 
us  heart  there  were  a haunting  memory  which  would  follow 
lim  through  all  time,  and  embitter  every  hour. 

One  year  and  more  of  the  dreary  seven  was  gone,  but  the 
iuture  looked  almost  hopeless  to  Isabel,  and  she  was  some- 
imes  tempted  to  go  away  and  leave  the  dangerous  game  at 
ivhich  she  was  so  hazardously  playing.  Still,  when  she 
;eriously  contemplated  such  a proceeding,  she  shrank  from  it 
-for  even  though  she  were  never  Frederics  wife,  she  would 
rather  remain  where  she  was,  and  see  that  no  other  came  to 
dispute  the  little  claim  she  had.  All  her  old  assurance  was 
.one,  and  in  her  dread  lest  Frederic  should  say  the  words  she 
must  not  hear,  she  assumed  toward  him  a half-distant,  halt- 
bashful  manner,  far  more  attractive  than  a bolder  course  of 
conduct  would  have  been,  and  Frederic,  while  watching  her  m 
this  new  phase  of  character,  struggled  manfully  against  the 
feeling  which  sometimes  prompted  him  to  break  his  promise 
to  the  blind  girl.  She  was  faulty,  he  knew— far  more  so 
than  he  had  once  imagined — but  she  was  brilliant,  beautuul, 
accomplished,  and  he  thought  that  he  loved  her. 

But  not  of  her  was  he  thinking  that  chill  March  night  when 
he  sat  alone  in  the  library  watching  the  flickering  of  the  lamp, 
and  listening  to  the  evening  wind,  as  it  shook  the  bushes  be- 
neath his  window.  It  was  Marian’s  seventeenth  birthday,  and 
he  was  thinking  of  her,  wondering  what  she  would  have  been 
had  she  lived  to  see  this  day.  She  was  surely  dead,  he  thought,  or 
some  tidings  of  her  would  have  come  to  him  ere  this,  and 
when  he  remembered  how  gentle,  how  pure  and  self-denying 
Marian  Grey  91 


92 


MARIAN  GREY 


her  short  life  had  been,  he  said  involuntarily:  “Poor  Marian 
— she  deserved  a better  fate,  and  should  she  come  back  to  me 
again  I would  prove  to  her  that  I am  not  all  unworthy  of  her 
love.” 

There  was  a shuffling  tread  in  the  hall,  and  Josh  appeared, 
bringing  several  letters.  One  bore  the  Louisville  postmark — 
one  was  from  New  Orleans — one  from  Lexington,  and  one 
from  Sarah  Green ! 

“Who  writes  to  me  from  New  York?”  was  Frederic’s 
mental  query,  and  tearing  open  the  wrapper  he  drew  nearer 
to  him  the  lamp  and  read,  while  there  crept  over  him  a name- 
less terror  as  if  even  while  he  was  thinking  of  the  lost,  the 
grave  had  opened  at  his  feet  and  shown  him  where  she  lay; 
not  in  the  moaning  river — not  in  the  deep,  dark  woods,  nor 
on  the  western  prairies,  as  he  had  sometimes  feared,  but  far 
away  in  the  great  city,  where  there  was  no  one  to  pity — no 
eye  to  weep  for  her  save  that  of  the  rude  woman  who  had 
written  him  the  letter. 

There  Marian  had  suffered  and  died  for  him.  His  Marian 
—his  young  girl-wife ! He  could  call  her  so  now,  and  he  did, 
saying  it  softly,  reverently,  as  we  speak  always  of  the  de- 
parted, while  the  tears  he  was  not  ashamed  to  weep  dropped 
upon  the  soiled  sheet.  He  did  not  think  of  doubting  it.  There 
was  no  reason  why  he  should,  and  his  heart  went  out  after  the 
dead  as  it  had  never  gone  after  the  living.  It  seemed  to  him 
so  terrible  that  she  should  die  among  strangers,  so  far  from 
home;  and  he  wondered  much  how  she  ever  chanced  to  get 
there.  She  had  remembered  him  to  the  last,  “forgiving  all  his 
sins,”  the  woman  said,  and  knowing  well  how  much  those  few 
words  meant,  he  said  again,  “Poor  Marian,”  just  as  the  door 
opened  and  Alice  came  slowly  in. 

There  was  a grand  party  that  night  at  the  house  of  Lawyer 
Gibson,  and  at  Isabel’s  request  Alice  had  come  to  ask  how 
long  before  the  carriage  would  be  ready.  Dinah  had  told  hep 
that  Frederic  was  in  the  library,  but  he  sat  so  still  she  thought; 
he  was  not  there,  and  she  said  inquiringly:  “Frederic?” 

“Yes,  darling,”  was  his  answer,  in  a tone  which  startled  the 
sensitive  child,  for  she  detected  in  it  a sound  of  tears,  and 
hurrying  to  his  side  she  passed  her  hand  over  his  face  to  as- 
sure herself  that  she  heard  aright. 

“Has  something  dreadful  happened?”  she  asked,  as  she  felt 
the  moisture  on  his  eyelids. 

Taking  her  on  his  lap,  and  laying  his  burning  cheek  against 
her  cool  forehead,  Frederic  said  to  her  very  tenderly  and  low: 

“Alice,  poor  Marian  is  dead ! Here  is  the  letter  which  came 


MARIAN  GREY 


93 


to  tell  us,”  and  he  placed  it  in  her  hand.  There  was  a sudden 
upward  flashing  of  the  brown  eyes,  and  then  their  soft  light 
was  quenched  in  tears,  as,  burying  her  face  in  the  young 
man’s  bosom,  the  blind  girl  sobbed:  “Oh,  no,  no,  Frederic, 


n°For  several  minutes  she  wept  passionately,  while  her  little 
frame  shook  with  strong  emotion.  Then,  lifting  up  her  head 
and  reaching  toward  the  spot  where  she  knew  the  letter  lay, 

she  said:  , , 

“Read  it  to  me,  Frederic,”  and  he  did  read,  pausing  occa- 
sionally as  he  was  interrupted  by  her  low  moaning  cry. 

“Is  that  all?”  she  asked,  when  he  had  finished.  “Didnt 
you  leave  out  a word  ?” 

“Not  one,”  was  his  reply,  and  with  quivering  lips  the  heart- 
broken child  continued,  “Marian  sent  no  message  for  poor 
blind  Alice  to  remember — she  never  thought  of  me  who  loved 
her  so  much.  Why  didn’t  she,  Frederic?”  and  the  sight- 
less eyes  looked  beseechingly  at  him  as  if  he  could  explain  the 


AIiySLCi  J . 

Poor  child!  Rudolph  McVicar  did  not  know  how  strong 
was  the  affection  between  those  two  young  girls,  or  he  would 
surely  have  sent  a message  to  one  who  seemed  almost  a part 
of  Marian  herself,  and  it  was  this  very  omission  which  finally 
led  the  close-reasoning  child  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  letter. 
But  she  did  not  doubt  it  now.  Marian  was  really  dead  to  her, 
and  for  a long  time  she  sat  with  Frederic,  saying  nothing,  but 
by  her  silence  manifesting  to  him  how  great  was  her  grief  at 
this  certain  bereavement. 

At  last,  remembering  her  errand,  she  told  him  why  she  had 
come,  and  asked  what  she  should  say  to  Isabel 

“Tell  her  I shall  not  go,”  he  said,  “but  she  need  not  remain 
at  home  for  that.  The  carriage  can  be  ready  at  any  time,  and, 
Alice,  will  you  tell  her  the?rest?  You’ll  do  it  better  than  I.” 
Alice  would  rather  that  someone  else  should  carry  to  Isabel 
tidings  which  she  felt  intuitively  would  be  received  with  more 
pleasure  than  pain,  but  if  Frederic  requested  it  of  her  she 
would  do  it,  and  she  started  to  return.  To  her  the  night  and 
the  day  were  the  same,  and  ordinarily  it  mattered  not  whether 
there  were  lamps  in  the  hall  or  not,  but  now,  as  she  passed 
from  the  library  into  the  adjoining  room,  there  came  over  her 
a feeling  of  such  utter  loneliness  and  desolation  that  she 
turned  back  and  said  to  Frederic : 

“Will  you  go  with  me  up  the  stairs,  for  now  that  Marian  is 
dead,  the  night  is  darker  than  it  ever  was  before.” 

He  appreciated  her  feelings,  and  taking  her  by  the  hand,  led 


94 


MARIAN  GREY 


her  to  the  door  of  Isabel’s  room.  Very  impatiently  Isabel  had 
waited  for  her,  wishing  to  know  what  hour  Frederic  intended 
starting,  and  if  there  would  be  time  for  Luce,  her  waiting 
maid,  to  curl  her  long,  black  hair.  Accidentally  she  had  over- 
heard a gentleman  say  that  if  she  wore  curls  she  would  be  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  Kentucky,  and  as  he  was  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  party  she  determined  to  prove  his  assertion. 

“I  hope  that  young  one  stays  well,”  she  said  angrily,  as  the 
moments  went  by,  and  at  last,  as  Alice  did  not  come,  she  bade 
Luce  put  the  iron  in  the  fire  and  commence  her  operations. 

The  negress  accordingly  obeyed  the  orders,  and  six  long 
curls  were  streaming  down  the  lady’s  back,  while  a seventh 
was  wound  around  the  hissing  iron  in  close  proximity  to  her 
ear,  when  Alice  came  in,  and  hurrying  up  to  her  side,  began : 
“Oh,  Miss  Huntington,  poor,  dear  Marian  wasn’t  dead  all  the 
time  they  thought  she  was.  She  was  in  New  York,  with 

Mrs. ” • . , , 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence;  for,  feeling  certain  that  her 
treachery  was  about  to  be  disclosed,  the  guilty  Isabel  jumped 
so  suddenly  as  to  bring  the  hot  iron  directly  across  her  ear  and 
a portion  of  her  forehead.  Maddened  with  the  pain,  and  a 
dread  of  impending  disgrace,  she  struck  the  innocent  girl  a 
blow  which  sent  her  reeling  across  the  floor. 

“Oh,  Lordy !”  exclaimed  Luce,  untwisting  the  hair  so 
rapidly  that  a portion  of  it  was  torn  from  the  head;  “Oh, 
Lordy!  Miss  Isabel,  Alice  never  tached  you”;  and,  throw- 
ing the  iron  upon  the  hearth,  she  hurried  to  the  prostrate 
child,  who  had  thrown  herself  upon  the  lounge  and  was  sob- 
bing so  loud  and  hysterically  that  Isabel  herself  was  alarmed, 
and  while  bathing  her  blistered  ear,  tried  to  stammer  out  some 
apology  for  what  she  had  done.  . M 

“I  supposed  you  carelessly  ran  against  me,”  she  said ; ^ and 
it  hurt  me  so  I didn’t  know  what  I was  doing.  Pray,  don  t cr}. 
that  way.  You’ll  raise  the  house”;  and  she  took  hold  oi 

Alice’s  shoulder.  ' 

“I  wish  she  would,”  muttered  Luce ; and,  stooping  down,  sht 
whispered:  “Screech  louder,  so  as  to  fotch  Marster  Frederic; 
and  tell  him  jest  how  she  done  sarved  you  l” 

But  nothing  could  be  further  from  Alice  s mind  than  crying 
for  effect.  It  was  not  so  much  the  indignity  she  had  suffered 
nor  yet  the  pain  of  the  blow  which  made  her  weep  so  bitterly 
It  was  rather  the  utter  sense  of  desolation,  the  feeling  that  hei 
last  hope  had  drifted  away  with  the  certainty  of  Marian  s 
death,  and  for  a time  she  wept  on  passionately;  while  Isabel 
with  a hurricane  in  her  bosom,  walked  the  floor,  wondering  11 


MARIAN  GREY 


95 


her  perfidy  would  ever  be  discovered,  and  feeling  that  she 
cared  but  little  now  whether  it  were  or  not  Suspense  was 
terrible,  and  when  the  violence  of  Alice  s sobs  had  subsided, 

she  said  to  her : . , . , ™ 

“Where  is  Marian,  and  when  is  she  coming  home. 

“Oh  never,  never  1”  answered  the  child.  She  can  t come 
back,  for  she’s  dead  now,  Marian  is”;  and  Alice  covered  her 

face  again  with  her  hands.  , ... 

“Dead!”  exclaimed  Isabel,  in  a far  different  voice  from  that 
in  which  she  had  spoken  before.  “What  do  you  mean? 
and  passing  her  arm  very  caressingly  around  the  little  figure 
lying  on  the  lounge,  she  continued  : “I  am  sorry  I struck  you, 
Alice  I didn’t  know  what  I was  doing,  and  you  must  forgive 
me,  will  you,  darling?  There,  dry  your  eyes,  and  tell  me  all 
about  poor  Marian.  When  did  she  die,  and  where? 

As  well  as  she  could  for  her  tears,  Alice  told  what  she 
knew,  and  satisfied  that  she  was  in  no  way  implicated,  Isabel 
became  still  more  amiable,  even  speaking  pleasantly  to  Luce 
and  telling  her  she  might  do  as  she  pleased  the  remainder  ot 
the  evening. 

“Of  course  I shouldn’t  think  of  attending  the  party  now 
even  if  I were  not  so  dreadfully  burned.  Poor  Frederic! 
How  badly  he  must  feel  1” 

“He  does,”  said  Alice,  “and  he  cried,  too.  ....  . 

Isabel  curled  her  proud  lip  contemptuously,  and  dipping  her 
handkerchief  again  in  the  water,  she  applied  it  to  her  blistered 
ear  thinking  to  herself  that  he  would  probably  be  easily  con- 
soled. It  would  be  proper,  too,  for  her  to  commence  the 
consoling  process  at  once,  by  expressing  her  sympathy;  and 
leaving  Alice  alone  she  went  to  the  library  where  Frederic 
was  still  sitting,  so  absorbed  in  his  own  sad  reflections  that  he 
did  not  observe  her  approach  until  she  said:  Alice  tells  me 

you  have  heard  from  Marian,”  then  he  started  suddenly,  and 
turning  toward  her,  answered:  “Yes,  you  can  read  what  is 

written  here  if  you  like,”  and  he  passed  her  McVicar  s letter. 

It  did  seem  to  Isabel  that  there  was  something  familiar 
about  the  writing,  particularly  in  the  formation  of  the  capitals, 
but  she  suspected  no  fraud  and  accepted  the  whole  as  coming 
from  Sarah  Green.  „ 

“This  is  some  new  acquaintance  Marian  picked  up,  she 
thought.  “The  woman  speaks  of  having  known  her  but  a 
short  time.  Probably  she  left  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  and  stumbled 
upon  Sarah  Green,”  and  with  an  exultant  smile  upon  her  beau- 
tiful face,  she  put  the  letter  down,  and  laying  her  hand  very 
lightly  on  Frederic’s  shoulder,  said:  “I  am  sorry  for  you, 


96 


MARIAN  GREY 


Frederic,  though  it  is  better,  of  course,  to  know  just  what  did 
become  of  the  poor  girl.” 

Frederic  could  not  tell  why  it  was  that  Isabel’s  words  of 
sympathy  grated  harshly  on  his  ear.  He  only  knew  that  they 
did,  and  he  was  glad  when  she  left  him  alone,  telling  him  she 
should  not,  of  course,  attend  the  party,  and  saying  in  reply 
to  his  questions  as  to  what  ailed  her  ear,  that  Luce,  who  was 
curling  her  hair,  carelessly  burned  it. 

“By  the  way,”  she  continued,  “when  I felt  the  hot  iron,  I 
jumped,  and  throwing  out  my  hand,  accidentally  hit  Alice  on 
her  head  and,  if  you’ll  believe  me,  the  sensitive  child  thinks  I 
intended  it,  and  has  almost  cried  herself  sick.” 

This  falsehood  she  deemed  necessary,  in  case  the  truth  of 
the  matter  should  ever  reach  Frederic  through  another  chan- 
nel, and  feeling  confident  that  she  was  safe  in  every  respect, 
and  that  the  prize  she  so  much  coveted  was  nearly  won.  she 
left  him  and  sought  her  mother’s  chamber. 

To  Frederic  reality  was  more  endurable  than  suspense,  for 
he  could  look  the  future  in  the  face  and  think  what  he  would 
do.  He  was  free  to  marry  Isabel,  he  believed;  but,  as  was 
quite  natural,  he  cared  less  about  it  now  than  when  there 
was  an  obstacle  in  his  way.  There  was  no  danger  of  losing 
her,  he  was  sure,  and  he  could  wait  as  long  as  he  pleased! 
Once  he  thought  of  going  to  New  York  to  make  some  in- 
quiries, and,  if  possible,  find  Marian’s  grave,  but  when  he  re- 
flected that  Sarah  Green  was  on  the  ocean,  even  before  her 
letter  reached  Kentucky,  he  decided  to  defer  the  matter  until 
their  removal  to  Yonkers,  which  was  to  take  place  about  the 
middle  of  May.  Isabel,  too,  had  her  own  views  upon  the  sub- 
ject. There  no  longer  existed  a reason  why  Frederic  should 
not  address  her,  and  in  her  estimation  nothing  could  be  more 
proper  than  to  christen  the  new  home  with  a bride.  So  she 
bent  all  her  energies  to  the  task,  smiling  her  sweetest  smile, 
saying  her  softest  words,  and  playing  the  amiable  lady  to  per- 
fection. But  it  availed  her  nothing,  and  she  determined  at  last 
upon  a bolder  movement.  , j 

Finding  Frederic  alone  in  the  parlor  one  day,  she  said: 

“I  suppose  it  will  not  affect  you  materially  if  mother  and  I 
leave  when  you  remove  to  Yonkers.  Agnes  Gibson,  you  know, 
is  soon  to  be  married,  and  she  has  invited  me  to  go  with  her 
to  Florida,  where,  she  says,  I can  procure  a good  situation  as 
music  teacher,  and  mother  wishes  to  go  back  to  New  Haven.” 
The  announcement,  and  the  coolness  with  which  it  was 
made,  startled  Frederic,  and  he  replied,  rather  anxiously. 

“I  have  never  contemplated  a separation.  I shall  need  your 


MARIAN  GREY 


97 


iiother  there  more  than  I do  here,  for  I shall  not  have  Dinah. 

“Perhaps  you  can  persuade  her  to  stay,  but  I think  it  best 
or  me  to  go/’  returned  Isabel,  delighted  with  her  success. 
Frederic  Raymond  did  not  wish  Isabel  to  leave  him,  and 

.fter  a moment,  he  said:  . , , . 

“Why  must  you  go,  Isabel?  Do  you  wish  for  a larger 
alary?  Are  you  tired  of  us— of  me?”  And  the  last  words 
vere  spoken  hesitatingly,  as  if  he  doubted  the  propriety  of  his 

aying  them.  . . 

“Oh,  Frederic!”  and  in  the  soft  black  eyes  raised  tor  an 
nstant  to  his  face,  and  then  modestly  withdrawn,  there  was 
:ertainly  a tear  ! “Oh,  Frederic  !”  was  all  she  said  and  Fred- 
eric felt  constrained  to  answer : “W  hat  is  it,  Isabel . Why 


lo  you  wish  to  go  ?”  , . . , . 

“I  don’t — I don’t,”  she  answered  passionately;  but  respect 
ior  myself  demands  it.  People  are  already  talking  about  my 
iving  here  with  you ; and  now  poor  Marian  is  dead  and  you 
ire  a widower,  it  will  be  tenfold  worse.  I wish  they  would 
et  us  alone,  for  I have  been  so  happy  here  and  am  so  much  at- 
ached  to  Alice.  It  will  almost  break  my  heart  to  leave 


Isabel  Huntington  was  wondrously  beautiful  then,  and 
Frederic  Raymond  was  sorely  tempted  to  bid  her  stay,  not  as 
Mice’s  governess,  nor  yet  as  the  daughter  of  his  housekeeper, 
out  as  his  wife  and  mistress  of  his  house.  Several  times  he 
Tied  to  speak,  and  at  last,  crossing  over  to  where  she  sat,  he 
beo-an : “Isabel,  I have  never  heard  that  people  were  talking 

o f you ; there  is  no  reason  why  they  should,  but  if  they  are 
I can  devise  a method  of  stopping  it,  and  still  keeping  you 
with  us.  I have  never  spoken  to  you  of  love,  he  was 

going  to  say,  and  the  graceful  head  was  already  bent  to  catch 
the  sound,  when  a little  voice  chimed  in,  Please,  Frederic,  I 
am  here,”  and  looking  up  they  saw  before  them  Alice. 

She  had  entered  unobserved  and  was  standing  just  withm 
the  door,  where  she  heard  what  Frederic  said.  Intuitively  she 
felt  what  would  follow  next,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
did,  she  had  apprised  them  of  her  presence. 

“The  brat !”  was  Isabel’s  mental  comment,  while  Frederic 
was  sensible  of  a feeling  of  relief,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
awakened  from  a spell,  or  been  saved  from  some  great  penl. 
For  several  moments  Isabel  sat,  hoping  Alice  would  leave  the 
room,  but  she  did  not,  and  in  no  very  amiable  mood  the  lady 
herself  constrained  to  go,  by  a call  from  her  mother,  who 
wished  to  see  her  on  some  trivial  matter. 

When  she  was  gone,  Alice  groped  her  way  to  the  sofa,  and 


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MARIAN  GREY 


climging  upon  it  said  to  Frederic:  “Won’t  you  read  me  that 
letter  again  which  Mrs.  Green  wrote  to  you  ?” 

He  complied  with  her  request,  and  when  he  had  finished 
the  child  continued:  “If  Marian  had  really  died,  wouldn’t  she 
have  sent  some  message  to  me,  and  wouldn’t  that  woman  have 
told  us  how  she  happened  to  be  way  off  there,  and  all  about 
it?” 

“If  Marian  really  died)”  repeated  Frederic.  “Do  you  doubt 
it?” 

“Yes,”  returned  the  child,  “Marian  loved  me  most  as  well  as 
she  did  you,  and  she  surely  would  have  talked  of  me  and  sent 
me  some  word;  then,  too,  is  there  much  difference  between 
scarlet  fever  and  canker-rash?  Don’t  some  folks  call  it  by 
both  names?” 

“I  believe  they  do,”  said  Frederic,  wondering  to  what  all 
this  was  tending. 

“Marian  had  the  scarlet  fever,  and  I,  too,  just  after  I came 
here,”  was  Alice’s  next  remark.  “You  were  at  college,  but  I 
remember  it,  and  so  does  Dinah,  for  I asked  her  a little  wrhile 
ago.  Can  folks  have  it  twice  ?”  and  the  little  blind  eyes 
looked  up  at  Frederic,  as  if  sure  that  this  last  argument  at 
least  were  proof  conclusive  of  Marian’s  existence. 

“Sometimes,  but  not  often,”  answered  Frederic,  the  shadow 
of  doubt  creeping  into  his  own  mind. 

“And  if  they  do,”  persisted  Alice,  who  had  been  consulting, 
with  Dinah,  “if  they  do,  they  seldom  have  it  hard  enough  to: 
die,  so  Dinah  says;  and  I don’t  believe  that  was  a good,  true 
letter.  Somebody  wrote  it  to  be  wicked.  Marian  is  alive,  I 
almost  know.” 

“Must  you  see  her  dead  body,  to  be  convinced?”  asked  Fred- 
eric a little  impatiently;  and  Alice  rejoined: 

“No,  no;  but  somehow  it  don’t  seem  right  for  you — to — 
oh,  Frederic !”  and,  bursting  into  tears,  she  came  at  once  to 
the  root  of  the  whole  matter. 

She  had  thought  a great  deal  about  the  letter,  wondering 
why  Marian  had  failed  to  speak  of  her,  and  at  last  rejecting  it 
as  an  impossibility.  Suddenly,  too,  she  remembered  that  once, 
when  she  and  Marian  were  sick,  she  heard  some  of  the  neigh- 
bors speak  of  their  disease  as  scarlet  fever,  while  others  called 
‘ it  the  canker-rash ; and  all  united  in  saying  they  could  have  it 
but  once.  This  had  led  to  inquiries  of  Dinah,  and  had  finally 
resulted  in  her  conviction  that  Marian  might  possibly  be 
living.  Full  of  this  new  idea,  she  had  hastened  to  Frederic, 
and  accidentally  overheard  what  he  was  saying  to  Isabel.  She 
comprehended  it,  too,  and  knew  that  but  for  her  unexpected 


MARIAN  GREY 


99 


presence,  he  would,  perhaps,  have  asked  the  lady  to  be  his 
[vife  and  she  felt  again  as  if  Marian  were  there  urging  her  to 
•tand  once  more  between  Frederic  and  temptation.  All  this 
she  told  him,  and  the  proud,  haughty  man,  who  would  have 
turned  a like  interference  from  any  other  source  listened 
Datiently  to  the  pleadings  of  the  childish  voice,  which  said  to 

lim  so  earnestly: 

“Don’t  let  Isabel  be  your  wife  1 

“What  objection  have  you  to  her?  he  asked;  and  when  she 
replied,  “She  isn’t  good,”  he  questioned  her  further  as  to  the 
:ause  of  her  dislike;  “was  there  really  a reason,  or  was  it 

mere  prejudice?”  . . T j i 

“I  try  to  like  her,”  said  Alice,  “and  sometimes  I do  real 
well  but  she  don’t  act  alone  with  me  like  she  does  when  you 
are  around.  She’ll  be  just  as  cross  as  fury,  and  if  you  come 
in,  she’ll  smooth  my  hair  and  call  me ‘little  pet. 

“Does  she  ever  strike  you?”  asked  Frederic,  feeling  a desire 
to  hear  Alice’s  version  of  that  story.  . , 

Instantly  the  tears  came  into  Alice  s eyes,  and  she  replied  • 
“Only  once — and  she  said  she  did  not  mean  that  but,  Fred- 
eric, she  did,”  and  in  her  own  way  Alice  told  the  story,  which 
sounded  to  Mr.  Raymond  more  like  the  truth  than  the  one  he 
had  heard  from  Isabel.  Gradually  the  conviction  was  forcing 
itself  upon  him  that  Isabel  was  not  exactly  what  she  seemed. 
Still,  he  could  not  suddenly  shake  off  the  chain  which  bound 
him,  and  when  Alice  said  to  him  in  her  odd,  straightforward 
wav:  “Don’t  finish  what  you  were  saying  to  Isabel  until 

you’ve  been  to  New  York  and  found  if  the  letter  is  true. ' He 
answered,  “Fie,  Alice,  you  are  unreasonable  to  ask  such  a 
thing  of  me.  Marian  is  dead.  I have  no  doubt  of  it,  and  1 
am  free  from  the  promise  made  to  you  more  than  a year 

S11“Maybe  she  isn’t,”  was  Alice’s  reply,  “and  if  she  is,  we  shall 
both  feel  better  if  you  go  and  see.  Go,  Frederic,  do.  It  won  t 
take  long,  and  if  you  find  she  is  really  dead,  1 11  never  speak 
another  naughty  word  of  Isabel,  but  try  to  love  her  just  as  I 
want  to  love  your  wife.  Will  you  go,  Frederic . I heard  you 
say  you  ought  to  see  the  house  before  we  moved,  and  Y onkers 
is  close  to  New  York,  isn’t  it?”  ...  , . , 

This  last  argument  was  more  convincing  than  any  which 
Alice  had  offered,  for  Frederic  had  left  the  entire  manage- 
ment of  repairs  to  one  whom  he  knew  understood  such  mat- 
ters better  than  himself,  consequently  he  had  not  been  there  at 
all,  and  he  had  several  times  spoken  of  going  up  to  see  that 
all  was  right  Particularly  would  he  wish  to  do  this  if  he  took 


100 


MARIAN  GREY 


hither  a bride  in  May,  and  to  Alice’s  suggestion  he  replied: 
“I  might,  perhaps,  do  that  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  you.” 

“Oh,  if  you  only  would!”  answered  Alice.  “You’ll  find  her 
somewhere — I know  you  will — and  then  you’ll  be  glad  you 
went.” 

Frederic  was  not  quite  so  sure  of  that,  but  it  was  safe  to  go, 
and  while  Isabel  had  been  communicating  to  her  mother  what 
he  had  been  saying  to  her,  and  asking  if  it  were  not  almost 
a proposal,  he  was  deciding  to  start  for  New  York  immedi- 
ately. Alice’s  reasons  for  doubting  the  authenticity  of  the 
letter  seemed  more  and  more  plausible  the  longer  he  thought 
of  them,  and  at  supper  that  night  he  astonished  both  Mrs. 
Huntington  and  her  daughter  by  saying  that  he  was  going 
North  in  a few  days,  and  wished  the  former  to  see  that  his 
wardrobe  was  in  proper  condition  for  traveling.  Isabel’s 
face  grew  dark  as  night,  and  the  wrathful  expression  of  her 
eyes  was  noticeable  even  to  him.  “There  is  a good  deal  of 
temper  there,”  was  his  mental  comment,  while  Isabel  feigned 
some  trivial  excuse  and  left  the  room  to  hide  the  anger  she 
knew  was  visible  upon  her  face.  He  had  commenced  pro- 
posing to  her,  she  was  sure,  and  he  should  not  leave  Redstone 
Hall  until  he  explained  himself  more  fully.  Still,  it  would  not 
be  proper  for  her  to  broach  the  subject — her  mother  must  do 
do  that.  It  was  a parent’s  duty  to  see  that  her  daughter’s 
feelings  were  not  trifled  with,  and  by  dint  of  cajolery,  en- 
treaties and  threats,  she  induced  the  old  lady  to  have  a talk 
with  Frederic,  and  ask  him  what  his  intentions  were. 

Mrs.  Huntington  was  not  very  lucid  in  her  remarks,  and 
without  exactly  knowing  what  she  meant,  Frederic  replied  at 
random  that  he  was  in  earnest  in  all  he  had  said  to  Isabel 
about  her  remaining  there,  that  he  did  not  wish  her  to  go 
away,  for  she  seemed  one  of  the  family,  and  that  he  would 
speak  with  her  further  upon  the  subject  when  he  came  back. 
This  was  not  very  definite,  but  Mrs.  Huntington  brushed  it  up 
a little  ere  repeating  it  to  Isabel,  who  really  accepted  it  as  an 
intimation  that  after  his  return  he  intended  asking  her  di- 
rectly to  be  his  wife.  Accordingly  she  told  Agnes  Gibson 
confidentially  what  her  expectations  were,  and  Agnes  told  it 
confidentially  to  several  others,  who  had  each  a confidential 
friend,  and  so  in  course  of  a few  days  it  was  generally 
understood  that  Redstone  Hall  was  to  have  another  mistress. 
Agnes  in  particular  was  very  busy  disseminating  news,  hoping 
by  this  means  to  turn  the  public  gossip  from  herself  and  the 
white-haired  man,  or  rather  the  plantation  in  Florida,  which 
she  was  soon  to  marry.  In  spite  of  her  protestations  to  the 


MARIAN  GREY 


101 


contrary,  people  would  say  that  money  and  not  love  actuated 
her  choice,  and  she  was  glad  of  anything  which  would  give 
her  a little  rest.  So  she  repeated  Isabel’s  story  again  and 
again,  charging  each  and  every  one  never  to  mention  it,  and 
consulting  between  times  with  her  bosom  friend  as  to  what 
arrangements  were  made,  and  suggesting  that  they  be  married 
on  the  same  day  and  so  make  the  same  tour. 

The  story  finally  reached  the  hotel  where  Rudolph  McVicar 
was  a boarder.  Exultingly  his  wild  eyes  flashed,  and  when 
he  heard  as  he  did  that  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the 
twentieth  of  May,  which  he  knew  was  Isabel’s  birthday,  he 
counted  the  hours  which  must  elapse  ere  the  moment  of  his 
triumph  came.  And  while  he  waited  thus,  and  Rumor,  with 
her  lying  tongue,  told  each  day  some  fresh  falsehood  of  that 
marriage  in  high  life,”  Frederic  Raymond  went  on  his  way, 
and  with  each  milestone  passed  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
lost  one — the  Marian  who  would  stand  between  him  and  Isabel. 


/ ; 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  RIVER 


“Marian,”  said  Ben,  one  pleasant  April  morning*,  Fred- 
eric’s  house  is  finished  in  tiptop  style,  and  if  you  say  so,  we  ll 
go  out  and  take  a look.  It  will  do  you  good  to  see  the  old 
place  once  more  and  know  just  how  things  are  fixed 

“Oh,  I’d  like  it  so  much,”  returned  Marian,  but  what  if  1 
should’ stumble  upon  Frederic?”  , , , 

“No  danger,”  answered  Ben;  “the  man  who  has  charge  Ox 
everything  told  me  he  wasn’t  cornin’  till  May,  and  the  old 
woman  who  is  tendin’  to  things  knows  I have  seen  Mr.  Ray- 
mond, for  I told  her  so,  and  she  won’t  think  nothin  ; so  clap 
on  your  things  in  a jiff,  for  we’ve  barely  time  to  reach  the 


Marian  did  not  hesitate  long  ere  deciding  to  go,  and  in  a 
few  moments  they  were  in  the  street.  As  they  were  passing 

the Hotel,  Ben  suddenly  left  her  and,  running  up  the 

steps,  spoke  to  one  of  the  servants  with  whom  he  was  ac- 
quainted. Returning  ere  long  he  said,  by  way  of  an  apology : 
“I  was  in  there  last  night  to  see  Jim,  and  he  told  me  there 
was  a man  took  sick  there  with  a ravin’  fever,  pretty  much 
like  what  you  had  when  you  bit  your  tongue  ’most  in  two. 

Marian  shuddered  involuntarily,  and  without  knowing  why, 
felt  a deep  interest  in  the  stranger,  thinking  how  terrible  it 
was  to  be  sick  and  alone  in  a crowded,  noisy  hotel. 

“Is  he  better?”  she  asked,  and  Ben  replied:  “No,  ten  times 
wuss— he’ll  die,  most  likely.  But  hurry  up— here’s  the  omni- 
bus we  want,”  and  in  the  excitement  of  securing  a seat,  they 
both  forgot  the  sick  man.  . 

The  trip  to  Yonkers  was  a pleasant  one,  for  to  Marian  it 
seemed  like  going  home,  and  when,  after  reaching  the  station, 
they  entered  the  lumbering  stage  and  wound  slowly  up  the 
long,  steep  hill,  she  recognized  many  familiar  waymarks,  and 
drawing  her  veil  over  her  face,  wept  silently  as  she  remem- 
bered all  she  had  passed  through  since  the  night  when  Col. 
Raymond  first  took  her  up  that  same  long  hill,  and  told  her  by 
the  way  of  his  boy,  Frederic,  who  would  be  delighted  with  a 
sister.  The  fond  old  man  was  dead  now,  and  she,  the  little 
girl  he  had  loved  so  much,  was  a sad,  lonely  woman,  going 


Marian  Grey 


103 


104 


MARIAN  GREY 


back  to  visit  the  spot  which  had  been  so  handsomely  fitted  up 
without  a thought  of  her. 

The  house  itself  was  greatly  changed,  but  the  view  it  com- 
manded of  the  river  and  the  scenery  beyond  was  the  same,  and 
leaning  against  a pillar,  Marian  tried  to  fancy  that  she  was  a 
child  again  and  listening  for  the  bold  footsteps  of  the  hand- 
some, teasing  boy,  who  had  been  at  once  her  terror  and  her 
pride.  But  all  in  vain  she  listened;  the  well-remembered  foot- 
fall did  not  come;  the  handsome  boy  was  not  there,  and  even 
had  he  been,  she  would  scarcely  have  recognized  him  in  the 
haughty,  elegant  young  man,  her  husband.  Yes,  he  was  her 
husband,  and  she  repeated  the  name  to  herself,  and  when  at 
last  Ben  touched  her  on  her  shoulder,  saying:  “I’ve  told  Miss 
Russell  my  sister  was  here,  and  she  says  you  can  go  over  the 
house,”  she  started  as  if  waking  from  a dream. 

“Let  us  go  through  the  garden  first,”  she  said,  as  she  led 
the  way  to  the  maple  tree  where  summers  before  she  had  built 
her  little  playhouse,  and  where  on  the  bark,  just  as  high  up  as 
his  head  then  came,  the  name  of  Frederic  was  cut. 

Far  below  it,  and  at  a point  which  her  red  curls  had  reached, 
there  was  another  name — her  own — and  Frederic’s  jackknife 
had  made  that,  too,  while  she  stood  by  and  said  to  him:  “I 
wish  I was  Marian  Raymond,  instead  of  Marian  Lindsey.” 

How  distinctly  she  remembered  his  characteristic  reply: 

“If  you  should  happen  to  be  my  wife,  you  would  be  Marian 
Raymond;  but,  pshaw,  I shall  marry  a great  deal  prettier 
woman  than  you  will  ever  be,  and  you  may  live  with  us  if  you 
want  to,  and  take  care  of  the  children.  I mean  to  have 
a lot !” 

She  had  not  thought  of  this  speech  in  years,  but  it  came 
back  to  her  vividly  now,  as  did  many  other  things  which  had 
occurred  there  long  ago.  Within  the  house  everything  was 
changed,  but  they  had  no  trouble  in  identifying  the  different 
rooms,  and  she  lingered  long  in  the  one  she  felt  sure  was  in- 
tended for  Frederic  himself,  sitting  in  the  chair  where  she 
knew  he  would  often  sit,  and  wondering  if,  while  sitting  there, 
he  would  ever  think  of  her.  Perhaps  he  might  be  afraid  of 
meeting  her  accidentally  in  New  York,  and  so  he  would  sel- 
dom come  there;  or,  if  he  did,  it  would  be  after  dark,  or 
when  she  was  not  in  the  street,  and  thus  she  should  possibly 
never  see  him,  as  she  hoped  to  do.  The  thought  was  a sad 
one,  and  never  before  had  the  gulf  between  herself  and  Fred- 
eric seemed  so  utterly  impassable  as  on  that  April  morning 
when,  in  his  room  and  his  armchair,  the  girl-wife  sat  and 
questioned  the  dark  future  of  what  it  had  in  store  for  her. 


MARIAN  GREY 


105 


Once  she  was  half  tempted  to  leave  some  memento — some- 
thing which  would  tell  him  she  had  been  there.  But  she 
spurned  the  idea  as  soon  as  formed.  She  would  not  intrude 
herself  upon  him  a second  time,  and  rising  at  last,  she  ar- 
ranged the  furniture  more  to  her  taste,  changed  the  position 
of  a picture,  moved  the  mirror  into  a perfect  angle,  set  Fred- 
eric's chair  before  the  window  looking  out  upon  the  river  and 
then,  standing  in  the  door,  fancied  that  she  saw  him,  with 
his  handsome  face  turned  to  the  light,  and  his  rich  brown 
hair  shading  his  white  brow.  At  his  feet,  and  not  very  far 
away,  was  a little  stool,  and  if  she  could  only  sit  there  once, 
resting  her  head  upon  his  knee  and  hear  him  speaking  to  her 
kindly,  affectionately,  she  felt  that  she  would  gladly  die,  and 
leave  to  another  the  caresses  she  could  never  hope  to  receive. 

Isabel's  chamber  was  visited  next,  and  Marian's  would  have 
been  less  than  a woman's  nature  could  she  have  looked  with- 
out a pang  upon  the  costly  furniture  and  rare  ornaments 
which  had  been  gathered  here.  In  the  disposal  of  the  fur- 
niture there  was  a lack  of  taste — a decidedly  Mrs.  Russell  air  ; 
but  Marian  had  no  wish  to  interfere.  There  was  something 
sickening  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  her  rival's  apartment,  and 
with  a long,  deep  sigh,  she  turned  away.  Opening  the  door  of 
an  adjoining  chamber,  she  stood  for  a moment  motionless, 
while  her  lips  moved  nervously,  for  she  knew  this  was  Alice's 
room.  It  was  smaller  than  the  others,  and  with  its  neat,  white 
furniture,  seemed  well  adapted  to  the  pure,  sinless  child  who 
was  to  occupy  it.  Here,  too,  she  tarried  long,  gazing  through 
blinding  tears  upon  the  little  rocking  chair  just  fitted  to  Alice's 
form,  looping  up  the  soft  lace  curtains,  brushing  the  dust 
from  the  marble  mantel,  and  patting  lovingly  the  snowy  pil- 
lows for  the  sake  of  the  fair  head  which  would  rest  there 
some  night. 

“There  are  no  flowers  here,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  tiny 
vases  on  the  stand.  “Alice  is  fond  of  flowers,  and  though 
they  will  get  withered  ere  she  comes,  she  will  be  sure  to  find 
them,  and  who  knows  but  their  faint  perfume  may  remind  her 
of  me,"  and  going  into  the  garden  she  gathered  some  hya- 
cinths and  violets  which  she  made  into  bouquets  and  placed  in 
the  vases,  bidding  the  old  woman  change  the  water  every  day> 
until  they  began  to  fade,  and  then  leave  them  to  dry  until  the 
blind  girl  came.  “Ben  told  me  of  her ; he  once  stayed  at  Red- 
stone Hall  all  night,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  the  woman's  in- 
quiring look.  “He  says  she  is  a sweet  young  creature  and  I 
thought  flowers  might  please  her." 

“Fresh  ones  would,"  returned  Mrs.  Russell,  “but  them  that’s 


106 


MARIAN  GREY 


withered  ain’t  no  use.  S’pose  I fling  'em  away  when  they  get 
old  and  put  in  some  new  the  day  she  comes  ?” 

“No,  no,  not  for  the  world;  leave  them  as  they  are/’  and 
Marian  spoke  so  earnestly  that  the  old  lady  promised  compli- 
ance with  her  request. 

“Be  you  that  Yankee  peddler’s  sister?”  she  asked,  as  she 
followed  Marian  down  the  stairs.  “If  you  be,  nater  cut  up  a 
curis  caper  with  one  or  t’other  of  you,  for  you  ain’t  no  more 
alike  than  nothin’.” 

“I  believe  I do  not  resemble  him  much,”  was  Marian’s 
evasive  answer,  as  with  a farewell  glance  at  the  old  place,  she 
bade  Mrs.  Russell  good-by  and  went  with  Ben  down  to  the 
gate  where  the  stage  was  waiting  to  take  them  back  to  the 
depot. 

It  was  dark  when  they  reached  New  York,  and  as  they 

passed  the Hotel  a second  time,  Marian  spoke  of  the 

sick  man,  and  wondered  how  he  was. 

“I  might  go  in  and  see,”  said  Ben,  “but  it’s  so  late  I guess 
I won’t,  particularly  as  he  is  nothin’  to  us.” 

“But  he’s  something  to  somebody,”  returned  Marian,  and  as 
she  followed  on  after  Ben,  her  thoughts  turned  continually 
upon  him,  wondering  if  he  had  a mother — a sister — or  a wife, 
and  if  they  knew  how  sick  he  was. 

While  thus  reflecting  they  reached  home,  where  they  found 
Mrs.  Burt  entertaining  a visitor — a Martha  Gibbs,  who  for 

some  time  had  been  at  the  Hotel  in  the  capacity  of 

chambermaid,  but  who  was  to  leave  there  the  next  day. 
Martha’s  parents  lived  in  the  same  New  England  village 
where  Mrs.  Burt  had  formerly  resided,  and  the  two  had  thus 
become  acquainted,  Martha  making  Mrs.  Burt  the  repository 
of  all  her  little  secrets,  and  receiving  in  return  much  motherly 
advice.  She  was  to  be  married  soon,  and  though  her  destination 
was  a log  house  in  the  West,  and  her  bridal  trousseau  con- 
sisted merely  of  three  dresses — a silk,  a delaine,  and  a calico 
— it  was  an  affair  of  great  consequence  to  her,  and  she  had 
come  as  usual  to  talk  it  over  with  Mrs.  Burt,  feeling  glad  at 
the  absence  of  Ben  and  Marian,  the  last  of  whom  she  sup- 
posed was  an  orphan  niece  of  her  friend’s  husband.  The  re- 
turn of  the  young  people  operated  as  a restraint  upon  her,  and 
changing  the.  conversation,  she  spoke  at  last  of  a sick  man 
who  was  up  in  the  third  story  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  which 
she  had  the  charge. 

“He  had  the  typhoid  fever,”  she  said,  “and  was  raving  dis- 
tracted with  his  head.  They  wanted  some  good  experienced 
person  to  take  care  of  him,  and  had  asked  her  to  stay,  she 


MARIAN  GREY 


107 


seemed  so  handy,  but  she  couldn’t.  John  wouldn’t  put  their 
wedding  off,  she  knew,  and  she  must  go,  though  she  did  pity 
the  poor  young  man — he  raved  and  took  on  so,  asking  them  if 
anybody  had  seen  Marian,  or  knew  where  she  was  buried!” 
Up  to  this  point  Marian  had  listened,  because  she  knew  it 
was  the  same  man  of  whom  Ben  had  told  her  in  the  morning ; 
but  now  the  pulsations  of  her  heart  stopped,  her  head  grew 
dizzy,  her  brain  whirled,  and  she  was  conscious  of  nothing 
except  that  Ben  made  a hurried  movement  and  then  passed 
his  arm  around  her,  while  he  held  a cup  of  water  to  her  lips, 
sprinkling  some  upon  her  face,  and  saying,  in  a natural  voice : 
“Don’t  you  want  a drink?  My  walk  made  me  awful  dry.” 

It  was  dark  in  the  room,  for  the  lamp  was  not  yet  lighted, 
and  thus  Martha  did  not  see  the  side  play  going  on.  She  only 
knew  that  Ben  was  offering  Marian  some  water;  but  Mrs. 
Burt  understood  it,  and  when  sure  that  Marian  would  not 
faint,  she  said : 

“Where  did  the  young  man  come  from,  and  what  is  his 
name?  Do  you  know?” 

“He  registered  himself  as  F.  Raymond,  Franklin  County, 
Kentucky,”  returned  the  girl;  “and  that’s  the  bother  of  it. 
Nobody  knows  where  to  direct  a letter  to  his  friends.  But 
how  I have  stayed  1 I must  go  this  minute,”  and  greatly  to  the 
relief  of  the  family,  Martha  took  her  leave. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  after  her,  when  Marian  was 
on  her  knees  and,  with  her  head  in  Mrs.  Burt’s  lap,  was 
begging  of  her  to  offer  her  services  as  nurse  to  Frederic  Ray- 
mond ! 

“He  must  not  die  there  all  alone,”  she  cried.  “Say  you  will 
go,  or  my  heart  will  burst.  They  know  Martha  for  a trusty 
girl,  and  they  will  take  you  on  her  recommendation.  Help 
me,  Ben,  to  persuade  her,”  she  continued,  appealing  to  the 
young  man,  who  had  not  yet  spoken  upon  the  subject. 

He  had  been  thinking  of  it,  however,  and  as  he  could  see 
no^particular  objection,  he  said  at  last: 

“May  as  well  go,  I guess.  It  won’t  do  no  hurt  anyway,  and 
mebby  it  ’ll  be  the  means  of  savin’  his  life.  You  can  tell 
Martha  how’ t you  ’spose  he’ll  pay  a good  price  for  nussin’, 
and  she  11  think  it’s  the  money  you  are  after.” 

su§‘‘?est^on  was  so  warmly  seconded  by  Marian,  that 
Mrs.  Burt  finally  consented  to  seeing  Martha,  and  asking  her 
what  she  thought  of  the  plan.  Accordingly,  early  the  next 
morning  she  sought  an  interview  with  the  young  woman,  in- 
how  the  stranger  was,  and  then  continuing: 
What  do  you  think  of  my  turning  nurse  a while  and 


108 


MARIAN  GREY 


taking  care  of  him?  I am  used  to  such  folks,  and  I presume 
the  gentleman  is  plenty  able  to  pay.” 

She  had  dragged  this  last  in  rather  bunglingly,  but  it  an- 
swered every  purpose,  for  Martha,  who  knew  her  thrifty 
habits,  understood  at  once  that  money  was  the  inducement, 
and  she  replied:  “Of  course  he  is.  His  watch  is  worth  two 
hundred  dollars,  to  say  nothing  of  a diamond  pin.  I for  one 
shall  be  glad  to  have  you  come,  for  I am  going  away  some- 
time today,  and  there’ll  be  nobody  in  particular  to  take  care 
of  him.  I’ll  speak  about  it  right  away.” 

The  result  of  this  speaking  was  that  Mrs.  Burt’s  offered 
services  were  readily  accepted,  for  Martha  was  known  to  be 
an  honest,  faithful  girl,  and  anyone  whom  she  recommended 
must,  of  course,  be  respectable  and  trusty.  By  some  chance, 
however,  there  was  a misunderstanding  about  the  name,  which 
was  first  construed  into  Burton  and  then  into  Merton,  and  as 
Martha,  who  alone  could  rectify  the  error,  left  that  afternoon, 
the  few  who  knew  of  the  sick  man  and  his  nurse,  spoke  of  the 
latter  as  a “Mrs.  Merton,  from  the  country,  probably.”  So 
when  at  night  Mrs.  Burt  appeared  and  announced  herself  as 
ready  to  assume  her  duties,  she  was  surprised  at  hearing  her- 
self addressed  by  her  new  name,  and  she  was  about  to  correct 
it  when  she  thought,  “It  doesn’t  matter  what  I’m  called,  and 
perhaps,  on  the  whole,  I’d  rather  not  be  known  by  my  real 
name.  I don’t  believe  much  in  goin’  out  nussin’  anyway,  and 
I guess  I’ll  let  ’em  call  me  what  they  want  to.” 

She  accordingly  made  no  explanation,  but  followed  the  serv- 
ant girl  up  the  three  long  flight  of  stairs,  and  turning  down 
a narrow  hall,  stood  ere  long  at  the  door  of  the  sick  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  FEVER 

Night  and  day  Frederic  Raymond  had  traveled,  never  al- 
lowing himself  a minute's  rest,  nor  even  stopping  at  Yonkers, 
so  intent  was  he  upon  reaching  New  York  and  finding,  if 
possible,  some  clew  to  Marian.  It  seemed  a hopeless  task,  for 
he  had  no  starting  point — nothing  which  could  guide  him  in 
the  least,  save  the  name  of  Sarah  Green,  and  even  that  was 
not  in  the  directory,  while  to  inquire  for  her  former  place 
of  residence,  was  as  preposterous  as  Marian's  inquiry  for 
Mrs.  Daniel  Burt ! Still,  whatever  he  could  do  he  did, 
traversing  street  after  street,  treading  alley  after  alley,  ask- 
ing again  and  again  of  the  squalid  heads  thrust  from  the  dingy 
windows  if  Sarah  Green  had  ever  lived  in  that  locality,  and 
receiving  always  the  same  impudent  stare  and  short  answer, 
“No.” 

Once,  in  another  and  worse  part  of  the  city,  he  fancied  he 
had  found  her,  and  that  she  had  not  sailed  for  Scotland  as  she 
had  written,  for  they  had  told  him  that  “Sal  Green  lived  up 
in  the  fourth  story,”  and  climbing  the  crazy  stairs,  he  knocked 
at  the  low,  dark  door,  shuddering  involuntarily  and  experienc- 
ing a feeling  of  mortified  pride  as  he  thought  it  possible  that 
Marian — his  wife — had  toiied  up  that  weary  way  to  die.  The 
door  was  opened  by  a blear-eyed,  hard-faced  woman,  who 
started  at  the  sight  of  the  elegant  stranger,  and  to  his  civil 
questions  replied  rather  gruffly:  “Yes,  I'm  Sal  Green,  I 

s'pose,  or  Sarah,  jest  which  you  choose  to  call  me,  but  the 
likes  of  Marian  Lindsey  never  came  near  me,”  and  glancing 
around  the  dirty,  wretched  room,  Frederic  was  glad  that  it 
was  so.  He  would  rather  not  find  her,  or  hear  tidings  of  her, 
than  to  know  she  had  lived  and  died  in  such  a place  as  this, 
and  with  a sickening  sensation  he  was  turning  away,  when  the 
woman,  who  was  blessed  with  a remarkable  memory,  and 
never  forgot  anything  to  which  her  attention  was  particularly- 
directed,  said  to  him:  “You  say  it's  a year  last  sence  she 

left  home?” 

“Yes,  yes,”  he  replied,  eagerly,  and  she  continued:  “You 

say  she  dressed  in  black,  and  wore  a great  long  veil  ?” 

“The  same,  the  same,”  he  cried,  advancing  into  the  room 
Marian  Grey  109 


110 


MARIAN  GREY 


and  thrusting  a bill  into  the  long  hand.  “Oh,  my  good 
woman,  have  you  seen  her,  and  where  is  she  now  ?” 

“The  Lord  knows,  mebby,  but  I don’t,”  answered  the 
woman,  who  was  identical  with  the  one  who  had  so  frightened 
Marian  by  watching  her  on  that  day  when  she  sat  in  front  of 
Trinity  and  wished  that  she  could  die.  “I  don’t  know  as  I 
have  seen  her  at  all,”  she  continued,  “but  a year  ago  last 
November  such  a girl  as  you  describe,  with  long  curls  that 
looked  red  in  the  sunshine,  sat  on  the  steps  ’way  down  by 
Trinity  and  cried  so  hard  that  I noticed  her,  and  knew  she 
warn’t  a beggar  by  her  dress.  It  was  gettin’  dark,  and  I 
was  goin’  to  speak  to  her  when  Joe  Black  came  up  and  asked 
what  ailed  her,  or  somethin’.  He  ain’t  none  of  the  likeliest,” 
and  a grim  smile  flitted  over  the  visage  of  the  wrinkled  hag. 

“Oh,  Heaven,”  cried  Frederic,  pressing  his  hands  to  his 
head,  as  if  to  crush  the  horrid  fear.  “God  save  her  from  that 
fate.  Is  that  all  you  know?  Can’t  you  tell  me  any  more? 
I’ll  give  you  half  my  fortune  if  you’ll  bring  back  my  poor,  lost 
Marian,  just  as  she  was  when  she  left  me.” 

The  offer  was  a generous  one,  and  Sal  was  tempted  for  a 
moment  to  tell  him  some  big  lie,  and  thus  receive  a companion 
to  the  bill  she  clutched  so  eagerly,  but  the  agonizing  expres- 
sion of  his  white  face  kindled  a spark  of  pity  within  her 
bosom,  and  she  replied : “I  did  not  finish  tellin’  you  that  while 
Joe  was  talkin’  and  had  seemin’ly  persuaded  her  to  go  with 
him,  a tall  chap  that  I never  seen  before  knocked  him  flat,  and 
took  the  girl  with  him,  and  that’s  why  I remember  it  so  well.” 

“Who  was  he,  this  tall  man?  Where  did  he  go?”  And 
Frederic  wiped  from  his  forehead  the  great  drops  of  sweat 
forced  out  by  terrible  fear. 

“I  told  you  I never  seen  him  before,”  was  Sally’s  answer, 
“but  he  had  a good  face — a milk  and  water  face — as  if  he 
never  plotted  no  mischief  in  his  life.  She’s  safe  with  him, 
I’m  sure.  I’d  trust  my  daughter  with  him,  if  I had  one,  and 
know  he  wouldn’t  harm  her.  He  spoke  to  her  tender  like,  and 
she  looked  glad,  I thought.” 

Frederic  felt  that  this  information  was  better  than  none, 
for  it  was  almost  certain  it  was  Marian  whom  the  woman  had 
seen,  and  in  a measure  comforted  by  her  assurance  of  Ben 
Burt’s  honesty,  he  bade  her  good  morning  and  walked  rapidly 
away. 

At  last,  worn  out  and  discouraged,  he  returned  to  his  hotel, 
where  he  now  lay  burning  with  fever  and,  in  his  delirium, 
calling  sometimes  for  Isabel,  sometimes  for  Alice,  and  again 
for  faithful  Dinah,  but  never  asking  why  Marian  did  not 


MARIAN  GREY 


111 


come.  She  was  dead,  and  he  only  begged  of  those  around  him 
to  take  her  away  from  Joe  Black,  or  show  him  where  her 
grave  was  made,  so  he  could  go  home  and  tell  the  blind  girl 
he  had  seen  it.  Every  ray  of  light  which  it  was  possible  to 
shut  out  had  been  excluded  from  the  room,  for  he  complained 
much  of  his  eyes,  and  when  Mrs.  Burt  entered,  she  could 
discover  only  the  outline  of  a ghastly  face  resting  upon  the 
pillows,  scarcely  whiter  than  itself.  It  was  a serious  case, 
the  attending  physician  said,  and  so  she  thought  when  she 
looked  into  his  wild,  bright  eyes,  and  felt  his  rapid  pulse.  To 
her  he  put  the  same  question  he  had  asked  of  nearly  everyone : 

“Do  you  know  where  Marian  is?” 

“Marian!”  she  repeated,  feeling  a little  uncertain  how  to 
answer. 

“Humor  him ! Say  you  do !”  whispered  the  physician,  who 
was  just  taking  his  leave.  And,  very  truthfully,  Mrs.  Burt 
replied : 

“Yes,  I know  where  she  is ! She  will  come  to  you  tomor- 
row.” 

“No!”  he  answered  mournfully.  “The  dead  never  come 
back,  and  it  must  not  be,  either.  Isabel  is  coming  then,  and 
the  two  can’t  meet  together  here,  for — Come  nearer,  woman, 
while  I tell  you ! I loved  Isabel  the  best,  and  that’s  what  made 
the  trouble.  She  is  beautiful,  but  Marian  was  good,  and  do 
you  know  Marian  was  the  heiress  of  Redstone  Hall;  but  I’m 
not  going  to  use  her  money.” 

“Yes,  I know,”  returned  Mrs.  Burt,  trying  to  quiet  him,  but 
in  vain. 

He  would  talk — sometimes  of  Marian,  and  sometimes  of 
Sarah  Green,  and  the  dreary  room  where  he  had  been. 

“It  made  Marian  tired,”  he  said,  “to  climb  those  broken 
stairs — tired,  just  as  he  was  now.  But  she  was  resting  so 
quietly  in  heaven,  and  the  April  sun  was  shining  on  her 
grave.  It  was  a little  grave — a child’s  grave  as  it  were — for 
Marian  was  not  so  tall,  nor  so  old  as  Isabel.” 

In  this  way  he  rambled  on,  and  it  was  not  until  the  morn- 
ing dawned  that  he  fell  into  a heavy  sleep,  and  Mrs.  Burt  had 
leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  novel  position  in  which  she  found 
herself. 

“It  was  foolish  of  me  to  give  up  to  them  children,”  she  said, 
“but  now  that  I am  here,  I’ll  make  the  best  of  it,  and  do  as 
well  as  I can.  Marian  shan’t  come,  though ! It  would  kill 
her  to  hear  him  going  on.” 

Mrs.  Burt  was  a little  rash  in  making  this  assertion,  for 
even  while  she  spoke,  Marian  was  in  the  reception  room  be- 


112 


MARIAN  GREY 


low,  inquiring  for  the  woman  who  took  care  of  Mr.  Ray- 
mond. Not  once  during  the  long  night  had  her  eyelids  closed 
in  sleep,  and  with  the  early  morning  she  had  started  for  the 
hotel,  leaving  Ben  to  get  his  breakfast  as  he  could. 

“Say  Marian  Grey  wishes  to  see  her,”  she  said,  in  answer 
to  the  inquiry  as  to  what  name  the  servant  was  to  take  to 
No.  — . 

“My  goodness!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Burt;  “why  didn’t  Ben 
keep  her  at  home?”  and,  gliding  down  the  stairs,  she  tried  to 
persuade  Marian  to  return. 

But  when  she  saw  the  firm,  determined  expression  in  the 
young  girl’s  eye,  she  knew  it  was  useless  to  reason  with  her, 
and  saying  rather  pettishly,  “You  must  expect  to  hear  some 
cuttin’  things,”  she  bade  her  follow  up  the  stairs.  Frederic, 
still  lay  sleeping,  his  face  turned  partly  to  one  side,  and  his 
hand  resting  beneath  his  head.  His  rich  brown  hair,  now 
damp  with  heavy  moisture,  was  pushed  back  from  his  white 
forehead,  which,  gleaming  through  the  dusky  darkness,  first 
showed  to  Marian  where  he  lay.  The  gaslight  hurt  his  eyes, 
and  the  lamp,  which  was  kept  continually  burning,  was  so 
placed  that  its  dim  light  did  not  fall  on  him,  and  a near  ap- 
proach was  necessary  to  tell  her  just  how  he  looked.  It  was 
nearly  a year  and  a half  since  she  had  seen  him  last,  and 
she  remembered  him  then  as  full  of  life  and  health.  But 
now  he  was  fearfully  changed,  and,  with  a bitter  moan,  she 
laid  her  head  beside  him  on  the  pillow,  so  that  her.  short 
curls  mingled  with  his  darker  locks,  and  she  felt  his  hot 
breath  on  her  cheek. 

“Frederic — dear  Frederic!”  she  said,  and  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice  he  moved  uneasily,  as  if  about  to  awaken. 

“Come  away,  come  away,”  whispered  Mrs.  Burt.  “He  may 
know  you,  and  a sudden  start  would  kill  him.” 

But  Marian  was  deaf  to  all  else  save  the  whispered  words 
dropping  from  the  sick  man’s  lips.  They  were  of  home,  of 
Alice,  of  the  library,  and  oh,  joy ! could  it  be  that  she  heard 
aright — did  he  speak  of  her?  Was  it  Marian  he  said?  Yes, 
it  was  Marian,  and  with  a cry  of  delight,  which  started  Mrs. 
Burt  to  her  feet,  and  penetrated  even  to  the  ear  of  the  un- 
conscious Frederic,  she  pressed  her  lips  upon  the  very  spot 
which  they  had  touched  before  on  that  night  when  she  gave 
him  her  first  kiss.  Slowly  his  eyes  unclosed,  but  the  wildness 
was  still  there,  and  Mrs.  Burt,  who  stood  anxiously  watching 
him,  felt  glad  that  it  was  so.  Slowly  they  wandered  about 
the  room,  resting  first  upon  the  door,  then  on  the  chandelier, 
then  on  the  ceiling  above,  and  dropping  finally  lower  and 


MARIAN  GREY 


113 


lower,  until  at  last  they  met  and  were  riveted  upon  Marian, 
who,  with  clasped  hands,  stood  breathlessly  awaiting  the 
result. 

“Will  he  know  her?  Does  he  know  her?”  was  the  mental 
query  of  Mrs.  Burt;  while  Marian’s  fast-breathing  heart 
asked  the  same  question  eagerly.  There  v/as  a wavering,  as 
it  would  seem— a fierce  struggle  between  delirium  and  reason, 
&nd  then,  with  a faint  smile,  he  said : 

“Did  you  kiss  me  just  now?”  and  he  pointed  to  the  spot 
upon  his  forehead. 

Marian  nodded,  for  she  could  not  speak,  and  he  continued : 

“Marian  kissed  me  there,  too ! Little  Marian,  who  went 
away,  and  it  has  burned  and  burned  into  my  veins  until  it  set 
my  brain  on  fire.  Nobody  has  kissed  me  since,  save  Alice. 
Did  you  know  Alice,  girl?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Marian,  keen  disappointment  swelling 
within  her  bosom  and  forcing  the  great  tears  from  her  eyes. 

She  had  almost  believed  he  would  recognize  her,  but  he 
did  not ; and  sinking  down  by  his  side,  she  buried  her  face  in 
the  bedclothes,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

“Don’t  cry,  little  girl,”  he  said,  evidently  disturbed  at  the 
sight  of  her  tears.  “I  cried  when  I thought  Marian  was  dead, 
but  that  seems  so  long  ago.” 

“Oh,  Frederic — ” And  forgetful  of  everything,  Marian 
sprang  to  her  feet.  “Oh,  Frederic,  is  it  true?  Did  you  cry 
for  me?” 

At  the  sound  of  his  own  name  the  sick  man  looked  be- 
wildered, while  reason  seemed  struggling  again  to  assert  its 
rights  and  penetrate  the  misty  fog  by  which  it  was  en- 
veloped. Very  earnestly  he  looked  at  the  young  girl,  who 
returned  his  gaze  with  one  in  which  was  concentrated  all  the 
yearning  love  and  tenderness  she  had  cherished  for  him  so 
long. 

“Are  you  Marian?”  he  said,  and  in  an  instant  uie  excited 
girl  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  laying  her  cheek 
against  his  own,  replied: 

“Yes,  Frederic,  yes.  Don’t  you  know  me,  your  poor  lost 
Marian  ?” 

Very  caressingly  he  passed  his  hand  over  her  short,  silken 
curls — twined  them  about  his  long  white  fingers — pushed 
them  back  from  her  forehead — examined  them  more  closely, 
and  then  whispered  mournfully: 

“No,  you  are  not  Marian.  This  is  not  her  hair.  But  I 
like  you,”  he  continued,  as  he  felt  her  tears  drop  on  his  face; 
“and  I wish  you  to  stay  with  me,  and  when  the  pain  comes 


m 


MARIAN  GREY 


back  charm  it  away  with  your  soft  hands.  They  are  little 
hands/'  and  he  took  them  between  his  own,  “but  not  so  small 
as  Marian's  were  when  I held  one  in  mine  and  promised  that 
I would  love  her.  It  seemed  like  some  tiny  roseleaf,  and  I 
could  have  crushed  it  easily,  but  I did  not;  I only  crushed 
her  heart,  and  she  fled  from  me  forever,  for  'twas  a lie  I told 
her,"  and  his  voice  sank  to  a lower  tone.  “I  didn't  love  her 
then— I don't  know  as  I love  her  now,  for  Isabel  is  so  beau- 
tiful. Did  you  ever  see  Isabel,  girl?" 

“Oh,  Frederic !"  groaned  Marian,  and  wresting  her  hands 
from  his  grasp,  she  tottered  to  a chair,  while  he  looked  after 
her  wistfully. 

“Will  she  go  away?"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Burt.  “Will  she  leave 
me  alone,  when  she  knows  Alice  is  not  here,  nor  Isabel?  I 
wish  Isabel  would  come,  don’t  you?" 

There  was  another  moan  of  anguish,  and  rolling  his  bright 
eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  armchair,  the  poor  man  whis- 
pered : 

“Hark!  that's  the  sound  I heard  the  night  Marian  went 
away ! I thought  then  'twas  the  wind,  but  I knew  afterwards 
that  it  was  she,  when  her  soul  parted  with  her  body,  and  it's 
followed  me  ever  since.  There  is  not  a spot  at  Redstone  Hall 
that  is  not  haunted  with  that  cry.  I've  heard  it  at  midnight, 
at  noonday — in  the  storm  and  in  the  rushing  river — where  we 
thought  she  was  buried.  All  but  Alice — she  knew  she  wasn't, 
and  she  sent  me  here  to  look.  She  don’t  like  Isabel,  and  is 
afraid  I'll  marry  her.  Maybe  I shall,  sometime ! Who 
knows  ?" 

And  he  laughed  in  delicious  glee. 

“Heaven  keep  me,  too,  from  going  mad  I"  cried  Marian. 
“Oh,  why  did  I come  here?" 

“I  told  you  not  to  all  the  time,"  was  Mrs.  Burt's  con- 
solatory remark;  which,  however,  was  lost  on  Marian,  who, 
seizing  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  rushed  from  the  room,  unmind- 
ful of  the  outstretched  arms  which  seemed  imploring  her  to 
stay. 

The  fresh  morning  air  revived  her  fainting  strength,  but 
did  not  cool  the  feverish  agony  at  her  heart,  and  she  sped  on- 
ward, until  she  reached  her  home,  where  she  surprised  Ben  at 
his  solitary  breakfast,  which  he  had  prepared  himself. 

“Oh,  Ben,  Ben !"  she  cried,  coming  so  suddenly  upon  him 
that  he  upset  the  coffee  pot  into  which  he  was  pouring  some 
hot  water.  “Would  it  be  wicked  for  you  to  kill  me  dead,  or 
for  me  to  kill  myself?" 

“What's  to  pay  now?"  asked  Ben,  using  the  skirt  of  his 


MARIAN  GREY 


115 


coat  for  a holder  in  picking  up  the  steamine  coffee  pot 

Very  hastily  Marian  related  her  adventures  in  the  sick 
room,  telling  him  how  Frederic  had  talked  of  marrying  Isabel 
before  her  very  face. 

“Crazy  as  a loon,”  returned  Ben.  “I  shouldn’t  think  nothin’ 
of  that.  You  say  he  talked  as  though  he  thought  you  was 
dead,  and  of  course  he  don’t  know  what  he’s  sayin’.  Have 
they  writ  to  his  folks  ?” 

“Yes,”  returned  Marian,  who  had  made  a similar  inquiry 
of  Mrs.  Burt.  “They  directed  a letter  to  'Frederic  Raymond’s 
friends,  Franklin  County,  Kentucky/  but  that  may  not  reach 
them  in  a long  time.” 

“Wouldn’t  it  be  a Christian  act,”  returned  Ben,  “for  us, 
who  know  jest  who  he  is,  to  telegraph  to  that  critter,  and  have 
her  come  ? By  all  accounts  he  wants  to  see  her,  and  it  may  do 
him  good.” 

Marian  felt  that  it  would  be  right,  and  though  it  cost  her  a 
pang,  she  said  at  last : 

“Yes,  Ben,  you  may  telegraph;  but  what  name  will  you  ap- 
pend?” 

“Benjamin  Butterworth,  of  course,”  he  replied.  “They’ll 
remember  the  peddler,  and  think  it  nateral  I should  feel  an 
interest.”  And  leaving  Marian  to  take  charge  of  the  break- 
fast table,  he  started  for  the  office. 

Meantime  the  sick  room  was  the  scene  of  much  excitement 
— Frederic  raving  furiously,  and  asking  for  the  girl  with  “the 
soft  hands  and  silken  hair.”  Sometimes  he  called  her  Marian, 
and  begged  of  them  to  bring  her  back,  promising  not  to  make 
her  cry  again. 

“There  is  a mystery  connected  with  this  Marian  he  talks  so 
much  about,”  said  the  physician,  who  was  present,  "and  he 
seems  to  fancy  a resemblance  between  her  and  the  girl  who 
left  here  this  morning.  What  may  I call  her  name  ?” 

"Marian,  my  daughter,”  came  involuntarily  from  Mrs. 
Burt,  whose  mental  rejoinder  was:  "God  forgive  me  for  that 
lie,  if  it  was  one.  Names  and  things  is  gettin’  so  twisted  up 
that  it  takes  more  than  me  to  straighten  ’em !” 

"Well,  then,”  continued  the  physician,  "suppose  you  send 
for  her.  It  will  never  do  for  him  to  get  so  excited.  He  is 
wearing  out  too  fast.” 

"I  will  go  for  her  myself,”  said  Mrs.  Burt,  who  fancied 
some  persuasion  would  be  necessary  ere  Marian  would  be  in- 
duced to  return. 

But  she  was  mistaken,  for  when  told  that  Frederic’s  life  de- 
pended upon  his  being  kept  quiet,  and  his  being  kept  quiet  de- 


116 


MARIAN  GREY 


pended  upon  her  presence,  Marian  consented,  and  nerved  her- 
self to  hear  him  talk,  as  she  knew  he  would,  of  her  rival. 

“If  he  lives,  I will  be  satisfied,”  she  thought,  “even  though 
he  never  did  or  can  love  me,”  and  with  a strong,  brave  heart, 
she  went  back  again  to  the  sick  man,  who  welcomed  her  joy- 
fully and,  folding  his  feeble  arms  around  her  neck,  stroked 
again  her  hair,  as  he  said:  “You  will  not  leave  me,  Marian, 

till  Isabel  is  here.  Then  you  may  go— back  to  the  grave  I 
cannot  find,  and  we  will  go  home  together.” 

Marian  felt  each  day  more  and  more  that  the  wound  she 
hoped  had  partly  healed  was  bleeding  afresh  with  a new  pain, 
for  while  he  talked  of  Marian  as  a mother  talks  of  an  unfor- 
tunate child,  he  spoke  of  Isabel  with  all  a lover's  pride,  and 
each  word  was  a dagger  to  the  heart  of  the  patient  watcher, 
who  sat  beside  him  day  and  night,  until  her  eyes  were  heavy, 
and  her  cheeks  were  pale  with  her  unbroken  vigils. 

“Do  you  then  love  this  Isabel  so  much?”  she  said  to  him 
one  day,  and  sinking  his  vojce  to  a whisper,  he  replied:  “Yes, 
and  I love  you,  too,  though  not  like  her  because  I loved  her 
first.” 

“And  Marian?”  questioned  the  young  girl.  “Don’t  you 
love  her?” 

Oh,  how  eagerly  she  waited  for  the  answer,  which,  when  it 
came,  almost  broke  her  heart. 

“Not  as  I ought  to — not  as  I have  prayed  that  I might, 
and  not  as  I should,  perhaps,  have  done,  if  she  hadn’t  been  to 
me  what  she  is.  Poor  child,”  he  continued,  brushing  away 
the  tears  which  rolled  like  rain  down  Marian’s  cheeks,  “poor 
child,  are  you  crying  for  Marian?” 

“Yes — yes,  for  Marian — for  poor,  heartbroken  me” ; and 
the  wretched  girl  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  beside  him, 
for  he  held  her  firmly  by  the  wrist,  and  she  could  not  get 
away. 

In  this  manner  several  days  went  by,  and  over  the  intellect 
so  obscured  there  shone  no  ray  of  reason,  while  the  girlish 
face  grew  whiter  with  each  morning  light,  and  at  last  the 
physician  said  that  she  must  rest,  or  her  strength  would  be 
exhausted. 

“Let  me  stay  a little  while  longer,”  she  pleaded,  “stay  at 
least  until  Miss  Huntington  arrives.” 

“Miss  who?”  asked  the  doctor.  “Do  you,  then,  know  his 
family  ?” 

“A  friend  of  mine  knows  them,”  answered  Marian,  a deep 
flush  stealing  over  her  cheek. 

“I  hope,  then,  they  will  reward  you  well,”  continued  the 


MARIAN  GREY 


117 


physician.  “The  young  man  would  have  died  but  for  you.  It 
is  remarkable  what  control  you  have  over  him.” 

But  Marian  wished  for  no  reward.  It  was  sufficient  for 
her  to  know  that  she  had  been  instrumental  in  saving  his  life, 
even  though  she  had  saved  it  for  Isabel.  The  physician  said 
that  Frederic  was  better,  and  that  afternoon,  seated  in  the 
large  armchair,  she  fell  into  a sweet,  refreshing  sleep,  from 
which  she  was  finally  aroused  by  Mrs.  Burt,  who,  bending 
over  her,  whispered  in  her  ear: 

“Wake  up.  She’s  come — she’s  here— Miss  Huntington! 

There  was  magic  in  that  name,  and  it  aroused  the  sleeping 
girl  at  once,  sending  a quiver  of  pain  through  her  heart,  for 
her  post  she  knew  must  now  be  given  to  another.  Not  both 
of  them  could  watch  by  Frederic,  and  she,  the  one  who  in  all 
the  world  had  the  best  right  to  stay,  must  go;  but  not  until 
she  had  looked  upon  her  rival  and  had  seen  once  the  face 
which  Frederic  called  so  beautiful.  This  done,  she  would  go 
away  and  die,  if  it  were  possible,  and  stand  no  longer  be- 
tween Frederic  and  the  bride  he  so  much  desired.  She  did 
not  understand  why  he  had  so  often  spoken  of  herself  as  be- 
ing dead,  when  he  knew  that  she  was  not.  It  was  a vagary 
of  his  brain,  she  said — he  had  had  many  since  she  came  there, 
and  she  hoped  he  would  sometimes  talk  of  her  to  Isabel,  just 
as  he  had  talked  of  Isabel  to  her.  There  was  a hurried  con- 
sultation between  herself  and  Mrs.  Burt  with  regard  to  their 
future  proceedings,  and  it  was  finally  decided  that  the  latter 
should  remain  a few  days  longer,  and  so  report  the  progress 
of  affairs  to  Marian,  who,  of  course,  must  go  away.  This 
arrangement  being  made  they  sat  down  and . rather  im- 
patiently waited  the  coming  of  Isabel,  who  was  in  her  room 
resting  after  her  tiresome  journey. 

“Oh,  how  can  she  wait  so  long  ?”  thought  Marian,  glancing 
at  Frederic,  who  was  sleeping  now  more  quietly  than  he  had 
done  before  for  a long  time. 

She  did  not  know  Isabel  Huntington,  and  she  could  not 
begin  to  guess  how  thoroughly  selfish  she  was,  nor  how  that 
selfishness  was  manifest  in  every  movement.  The  letter, 
which  at  last  had  gone  to  Frankfort,  was  received  the  same 
day  with  the  telegram,  and,  as  a natural  consequence,  threw 
the  inmates  of  Redstone  Hall  into  a great  excitement.  Par- 
ticularly was  this  the  case  with  Isabel,  who,  unmindful  of 
everything,  wrung  her  hands  despairingly,  crying  out:  “Oh, 

what  shall  I do  if  he  dies?” 

“Do,”  repeated  Dinah,  forgetting  her  own  grief  in  her  dis- 
gust. “For  the  Lord’s  sake,  can’t  you  do  what  you  alius  did? 


118 


MARIAN  GREY 


Go  back  whar  you  come  from,  you  and  your  mother,  in 
course.” 

Isabel  deigned  no  reply  to  this  remark,  but  hurried  to  her 
chamber,  where  she  commenced  the  packing  of  her  trunk. 

“Wouldn’t  it  look  better  for  me  to  go?”  suggested  Mrs. 
Huntington,  and  Isabel  answered : 

“Certainly  not;  the  telegram  was  directed  to  me.  No  one 
knows  me  in  New  York,  and  I don’t  care  what  folks  say  here. 
If  he  lives,  I shall  be  his  wife,  of  course,  else  why  should  he 
send  for  me.  It’s  perfectly  natural  that  I should  go.”  And 
thinking  to  herself  that  she  would  rather  Frederic  should  die 
than  to  live  for  another,  she  completed  her  hasty  preparations, 
and  was  on  her  way  to  the  depot  before  the  household  had 
hardly  had  time  to  realize  what  they  were  doing. 

Distressed  and  anxious  as  Isabel  seemed,  it  was  no  part  of 
her  intentions  to  travel  nights,  for  that  would  give  her  a sal- 
low, jaded  look;  so  she  made  the  journey  leisurely,  and  even 
after  her  arrival  took  time  to  rest  and  beautify  ere  presenting 
herself  to  Frederic.  She  had  ascertained  that  he  was  better, 
and  had  the  best  of  care,  so  she  remained  quietly  in  her  cham- 
ber an  hour  or  so,  and  it  was  not  until  after  dark  that  she 
bade  a servant  show  her  to  the  sick  room. 

“I  will  tell  them  you  are  coming,”  suggested  the  polite 
attendant ; and  going  on  before  her,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Burt  that 
“Miss  Huntington  would  like  to  come  in.” 

In  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  where  the  shadows  were’ 
the  deepest,  and  where  she  would  be  the  least  observed,  sat’ 
Marian,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together,  her  head  bent  for- 
ward, and  her  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  the  door  through  which 
her  rival  would  enter.  Frederic  was  awake,  and,  missing  her 
from  her  post,  was  about  asking  for  her,  when  Isabel  ap- 
peared, looking  so  fresh,  so  glowing,  so  beautiful,  that  for  an 
instant  Marian  forgot  everything  in  her  admiration  of  the 
queenly  creature,  who,  bowing  civilly  to  Mrs.  Burt,  glided  to  i 
the  bedside,  and  sank  upon  her  knees,  gracefully — very  grace- 
fully— just  as  she  had  intended  doing,  and,  in  fact,  just  as 
she  had  done  at  a private  rehearsal  in  her  own  room ! Tighter 
the  little  hands  were  clasped  together,  and  the  head  which  had 
drooped  before  was  erect  now,  as  Marian  watched  eagerly  for 
what  would  follow  next. 

“Dear  Frederic,”  said  Isabel,  and  over  the  white  face  in 
the  armchair  the  hot  blood  rushed  in  torrents,  for  it  seemed 
almost  an  insult  to  hear  him  thus  addressed.  “Dear  Frederic 
do  you  know  me?  I am  Isabel”;  and,  unmindful  of  Mrs.’ 
Burt,  or  yet  of  the  motionless  figure  sitting  near,  she  kissed 


MARIAN  GREY 


119 


his  burning  forehead,  and  said  again:  “Do  you  know  me?” 

The  nails  were  making  dark  rings  now  in  the  tender  flesh, 
while  the  blue  eyes  flashed  until  they  grew  almost  as  black  as 
Isabel’s,  and  still  Marian  did  not  move.  She  could  not,  until 
she  heard  what  answer  would  be  given.  As  the  physician  had 
predicted,  Frederic  was  better  since  his  refreshing  sleep,  and 
through  the  misty  veil  enshrouding  his  reason  a glimmer  of 
light  was  shining.  The  voice  was  a familiar  one,  and  though 
it  partially  bewildered  him,  he  knew  who  it  was  that  bent  so 
fondly  over  him.  It  was  somebody  from  home,  and  with  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  akin  to  what  one  feels  when  meeting  a fel- 
low-countryman far  on  a foreign  shore,  he  twined  his  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  said  to  her  joyfully:  “You  are  Isabel* 
and  you’ve  come  to  make  me  well.” 

Isabel  was  about  to  speak  again,  when  a low  sob  startled 
her,  and  turning  in  the  direction  from  whence  it  came,  she 
met  a fierce,  burning  gaze  which  riveted  her  as  by  some  mag- 
netism to  the  spot,  and  for  a moment  the  two  looked  intently 
into  each  other’s  eyes.  Isabel  and  Marian,  the  one  stamping 
indelibly  upon  her  memory  the  lineaments  of  a face  which 
had  stolen  and  kept  a heart  which  should  have  been  her  own, 
while  the  other  wondered  much  at  the  strange  white  face 
which  even  through  the  darkness  seemed  quivering  with  pain. 

Purposely  Mrs.  Burt  stepped  between  them,  and  thus  the 
spell  was  broken,  Isabel  turning  again  to  Frederic,  while 
Marian,  unlocking  her  stiff  fingers,  grasped  her  bonnet,  and 
glided  from  the  room  so  silently  that  Isabel  knew  not  she  was 
gone  until  she  turned  her  head  and  found  the  chair  empty. 

“Who  was  that?”  she  said  to  Mrs.  Burt,  “that  young  girl 
who  just  went  out?” 

“My  daughter,”  answered  Mrs.  Burt,  again  mentally  asking 
forgiveness  for  the  falsehood  told,  and  thinking  to  herself, 
“Mercy  knows  it  ain’t  my  nater  to  lie,  but  when  a body  gets 
mixed  up  in  such  a scrape  as  this,  I’d  like  to  see  ’em  help  it  1” 
After  the  first  lucid  interval,  Frederic  relapsed  again  into 
his  former  delirious  mood,  but  did  not  ask  for  Marian.  He 
seemed  satisfied  that  Isabel  was  there,  and  he  fell  asleep  again, 
resting  so  quietly  that  when  it  was  eleven  Isabel  arose  and 
said^  “He  is  doing  well.  I believe  I will  retire.  I never  sat 
up  with  a sick  person  in  my  life,  and  should  be  very  little  as- 
sistance to  you.  That  daughter  of  yours  is  somewhere  around, 
I suppose,  and  will  come  if  you  need  help.” 

It  was  long  after  daylight  ere  Isabel  awoxe,  and  when  she 
did  her  first  thought  was  of  the  girl  she  had  seen  the  night 
before.  “How  white  she  was,”  she  said,  as  she  made  her 


120 


MARIAN  GREY 


elaborate  toilet,  “and  how  those  eyes  of  hers  glared  at  me,  as 
if  I had  no  business  here.  Maybe  she  has  fallen  in  love  while 
taking  care  of  him” ; and  Isabel  laughed  aloud  at  the  very  idea 
of  a nursing  woman’s  daughter  being  in  love  with  the  fastidi- 
ous Frederic ! Once  she  thought  of  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  won- 
dering where  she  lived,  and  half  wishing  she  could  find  her, 
and,  herself  unknown,  could  question  her  of  Marian. 

“Maybe  this  Mrs.  Merton  knows  something  of  her,”  she 
said,  and  thinking  she  would  ask  her  if  a good  opportunity 
should  occur,  she  gave  an  extra  brush  to  her  glossy  hair, 
looked  in  a small  hand  mirror  to  see  that  the  braids  at  the 
back  of  her  head  were  right,  threw  open  her  wrapper  a little 
more  to  show  her  flounced  cambric  skirt  and  then  went  to 
the  breakfast  room,  where  three  attendants,  attracted  by  her 
style  and  the  prospects  of  a fee,  bowed  obsequiously  and  asked 
what  she  would  have.  This  occupied  nearly  another  hour, 
and  it  was  almost  ten  ere  she  presented  herself  to  Mrs.  Burt, 
who  was  growing  very  faint  and  weary. 

At  the  physician’s  request,  more  light  had  been  admitted 
into  the  room,  and  Frederic,  who  was  much  better  this  morn- 
ing, recognized  Isabel  at  once.  He  had  a faint  remembrance 
of  having  seen  her  the  previous  night,  but  it  needed  Mrs. 
Burt’s  assertion  to  confirm  his  conjecture,  and  he  greeted  her 
now  as  if  meeting  her  for  the  first  time.  Many  questions  he 
asked  her  of  the  people  at  home,  and  how  they  had  learned  of 
his  illness. 

“We  received  a letter  and  a telegram,  both,”  said  Isabel; 
continuing:  “You  remember  that  booby  peddler  who  sold 

Alice  the  bracelet  and  frightened  the  negroes  so?  Well,  he 
must  have  telegraphed,  for  his  name  was  signed  to  the  dis- 
patch, ‘Benjamin  Butter  worth.’  ” 

Mrs.  Burt  was  very  much  occupied  with  something  near 
the  table,  and  Frederic  did  not  notice  her  confusion,  as  he  re- 
plied, “He  was  a kind-hearted  man,  I thought,  but  I wonder 
how  he  knew  of  my  illness,  and  where  he  is  now.  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton, has  a certain  Ben  Butterworth  inquired  for  me  since  I 
was  sick?”  I 

“I  know  nobody  by  that  name,”  returned  Mrs.  Burt,  and 
without  stopping  to  think  that  her  question  might  lead  to  some 
inquiries  from  Frederic,  Isabel  rejoined:  “Well,  do  you  know 
a Mrs.  Daniel  Burt?” 

“Mrs.  Daniel  Burt !”  repeated  Frederic,  as  if  trying  to  re- 
call something  far  back  in  the  past,  while  the  lady  in  question 
started  so  suddenly  as  to  drop  the  cup  of  hot  water  she  held  in 
her  hand 


MARIAN  GREY 


121 


Stooping  down  to  pick  up  the  cup,  she  said  something  about 
its  having  burned  her,  and  added:  “I  ain’t  much  acquainted 

in  the  city,  and  never  know  my  next-door  neighbors.” 

“Mrs.  Daniel  Burt?”  Frederic  said  again.  “I  have  surely 
heard  that  name  before.  Who  is  she,  Isabel?” 

It  was  Isabel’s  turn  now  to  answer  evasively  ; but  being 
more  accustomed  to  dissimulate  than  her  companion,  she  re- 
plied, quite  as  a matter  of  course:  “You  may  have  heard 

mother  speak  of  her  in  New  Haven.  I used  to  know  her 
when  I was  a little  girl,  and  I believe  she  lives  in  New  York. 
She  was  a very  good,  but  a very  common  kind  of  woman,  and 
one  with  whom  I should  not  care  to  associate,  though  mother, 
I dare  say,  would  be  glad  to  hear  from  her.” 

“The  impudent  trollop,”  muttered  Mrs.  Burt,  marveling  at 
the  conversation,  and  wondering  which  was  trying  to  deceive 
the  other,  Frederic  or  Isabel.  “The  former  couldn’t  hood- 
wink  her,”  she  said,  “even  if  he  did  Isabel.  She  understood 
it  all,  and  he  knew  who  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  was  just  as  well  as 
she  did,  for  even  if  he  had  forgotten  that  she  once  lived  with 
his  father,  Marian’s  letter  had  refreshed  his  memory,  and  he 
was  only  'putting  on’  for  the  sake  of  misleading  Isabel.  But 
where  in  the  world  did  that  jade  know  her?”  that  was  a 
puzzle,  and  settling  it  in  her  own  mind  that  there  were  two 
of  the  same  name,  she  left  the  room  and  went  down  to  her 
breakfast. 

In  the  morning  Frederic  was  better  than  he  had  been  be- 
fore. Mrs.  Burt,  who  had  watched  him  carefully,  knew  that 
the  danger  was  past,  and  that  afternoon  she  left  him  with 
Isabel,  while  she  went  home,  where  she  found  Marian 
seriously  ill,  with  Ben  taking  care  of  her  in  his  kind  but 
awkward  manner. 

“Did  Frederic  remember  me?  Does  he  know  I have  been 
there  ?”  were  Marian’s  first  questions,  and  when  Mrs.  Burt  re- 
plied in  the  negative,  she  turned  away,  whispering  mourn- 
fully: “It  is  just  as  well.” 

“He  is  doing  well,”  said  Mrs.  Burt,  “and  as  you  need  me 
more  than  he  does  now,  I shall  come  home  and  let  that  Isabel 
take  care  of  him.  It  won’t  hurt  her  any,  the  jade.  She  can 
telegraph  for  her  mother  if  she  chooses.” 

Accordingly,  she  returned  to  the  sick  room,  where  she 
found  Frederic  asleep  and  Isabel  reading  a novel.  To  her  an- 
nouncement of  leaving,  the  latter  made  no  objection.  She 
was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise,  for,  as  Frederic  grew 
stronger,  the  presence  of  a third  person,  and  a stranger,  too, 
might  be  disagreeable.  She  would  telegraph  for  her  mother, 


122 


MARIAN  GREY 


of  course,  as  she  did  not  think  it  quite  proper  to  stay  there 
alone.  But  her  mother  was  under  her  control ; she  could  dis- 
pose of  her  at  any  time,  so  she  merely  stopped  her  reading 
long  enough  to  say:  “Very  well,  you  can  go  if  you  like.  How 
much  is  your  charge?”  . 

Mrs.  Burt  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  her;  and  Isabel,  who  had 
taken  care  of  Frederic’s  purse,  paid  her,  and  then  resumed  her 
book,  while  Mrs.  Burt,  with  a farewell  glance  at  her  patient, 
went  from  the  room,  without  a word  of  explanation  as  to 
where  she  could  be  found  in  case  they  wished  to  find  her. 

It  was  dark  when  Frederic  awoke,  and  it  was  so  still 
around  him  that  he  believed  himself  alone. 

“They  have  all  left  me,”  he  said;  “Mrs.  Merton,  Isabel,  and 
that  other  one,  that  being  of  mystery — who  was  she — who 
could  she  have  been?”  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  he  tried  to 
bring  her  before  him  just  as  he  had  often  seen  her  bending 
o’er  his  pillow. 

He  knew  now  that  it  was  not  a phantom  of  his  brain,  but  a 
reality.  There  had  been  a young  girl  there,  and  when  the 
world  without  was  darkest,  and  he  was  drifting  far  down  the 
river  of  death,  her  voice  had  called  him  back,  and  her  hands 
had  held  him  up  so  that  he  did  not  sink  in  the  deep,  angry 
waters.  There  were  tears  many  times  upon  her  face,  he  re- 
membered, and  once  he  had  wiped  them  away,  asking  why 
she  cried.  It  was  a pretty  face,  he  said,  a very  pretty  face, 
and  the  saucy  eyes  of  blue  seemed  shining  on  him  even  now, 
while  the  memory  of  her  gentle  acts  was  very,  very  sweet, 
thrilling  him  with  an  undefined  emotion,  and  awakening  with- 
in his  bosom  a germ  of  that  undying  love  he  was  yet  to  feel 
for  that  mysterious  stranger.  She  had  called  him  Frederic, 
too,  while  he  had  called  her  Marian.  She  had  answered  to 
that  name,  she  had  asked  him  of  Isabel,  and — “Oh,  Heaven !” 
he  cried,  starting  quickly,  and  clasping  both  hands  upon  his 
head.  Like  a thunderbolt  it  burst  upon  him,  and  for  an  in- 
stant his  brain  seemed  all  on  fire.  “It  was  Marian — it  was 
Marian !”  he  essayed  to  say,  but  his  lips  refused  to  move,  and 
when  Isabel,  startled  by  his  sudden  movement,  struck  a light 
and  came  to  his  bedside,  she  saw  that  he  had  fainted! 

In  great  alarm  she  summoned  help,  begging  of  those  who 
came  to  go  at  once  for  Mrs.  Merton.  But  no  one  knew  of  the 
woman’s  place  of  residence,  and  as  she  had  failed  to  inquire, 
it  was  a hopeless  matter.  Slowly  Frederic  came  back  to  con- 
sciousness, and  when  he  was  again  alone  with  Isabel,  he  said 
to  her:  “Where  is  that  woman  who  took  care  of  me?” 

“She  is  gone,”  said  Isabel.  “Gone  to  her  home.” 


MARIAN  GREY 


123 


“Gone!”  he  repeated.  “Where  did  she  go,  and  why?’ 

Isabel  told  him  the  particulars  of  Mrs.  Burt's  going,  and 
he  continued: 

“Was  there  no  one  else  here  when  you  came?  No  young 
girl  with  soft  blue  eyes?”  and  he  looked  eagerly  at  her. 

“Yes,”  she  replied.  “There  was  a queer  acting  thing  sitting 
in  the  armchair  the  night  I first  came  in — ” 

“Who  was  she,  and  where  is  she  now?”  he  asked;  and 
Isabel  answered : “I  am  sure  I don’t  know  where  she  is,  for 
she  vanished  like  a ghost.” 

“Yes,  yes;  but  who  was  she?  Did  she  have  no  name?” 
and  Frederic  clutched  Isabel’s  arm  nervously. 

“Mrs.  Merton  told  me  it  was  her  daughter — that  is  all  I 
know,”  said  Isabel;  and  in  a tone  of  disappoinment,  he  con- 
tinued : 

“Will  you  tell  me  just  how  she  looked,  and  how  she  acted 
when  you  first  saw  her?” 

“One  would  suppose  you  deeply  interested  in  your  nurse’s 
daughter”;  and  the  glittering  black  eyes  flashed  scornfully 
upon  Frederic,  who  replied: 

“I  am  interested,  for  she  saved  my  life.  Tell  me,  won’t 
you,  how  she  looked?” 

“Well,  then,”  returned  Isabel  pettishly,  “she  was  about  fif- 
teen, I think — certainly  not  older  than  that.  Her  face  was 
very  white,  with  big,  blue  eyes,  which  glared  at  me  like  a wild 
beast’s ; and  what  is  queerer  than  all  she  actually  sobbed  when 
I,  or  rather  you,  kissed  me;  perhaps  you  have  forgotten  that 
you  did?” 

He  had  forgotten  it,  for  the  best  of  reasons,  but  he  did  not 
contradict  her,  so  intent  was  he  upon  listening  to  her  story. 

“I  had  not  observed  her  particularly  before;  but  when  I 
heard  that  sound  I turned  to  look  at  her,  while  she  stared  at 
me  as  impudently  as  if  I had  no  business  here.  That  woman 
stepped  between  us  purposely,  I know,  for  she  seemed  excited ; 
and  when  I saw'  the  armchair  again,  the  girl  was  gone.” 

Thus  far  everything,  except  the  probable  age,  had  confirmed 
his  suspicions;  but  there  was  one  question  more — an  all-im- 
portant one — and  with  trembling  eagerness,  he  asked: 

“What  of  her  hair?  Did  you  notice  that?” 

“It  was  brown,  I think,”  said  Isabel,  “short  in  her  neck  and 
curly  around  her  forehead.  I should  say  her  hair  was  rather 
handsome.” 

With  a sigh  of  disappointment,  Frederic  turned  upon  his 
pillow,  saying  to  her : 

“That  will  do — I’ve  heard  enough.” 


124 


MARIAN  GREY 


Isabel's  last  words  had  brought  back  to  his  mind  something 
which  he  had  forgotten  until  now— the  girl's  hair  was  short, 
and  he  remembered  distinctly  twining  the  soft  rings  around 
his  fingers.  They  were  not  long,  red  curls,  like  those  described 
by  Sally  Green.  It  wasn't  Marian’s  hair — it  wasn’t  Marian  at 
all;  and  in  his  weakness  his  tears  dropped  silently  upon  the 
pillow,  for  the  disappointment  was  terrible.  All  that  night 
and  the  following  day  he  was  haunted  with  thoughts  of  the 
young . girl,  and  at  last,  determining  to  see  her  again,  and 
know  if  she  were  like  Marian,  he  said  to  Isabel: 

“Send  for  Mrs.  Merton.  I wish  to  talk  with  her." 

“It  is  an  impossibility,"  returned  Isabel ; “for  when  she  left 
us,  I carelessly  neglected  to  ask  where  she  lived — " 

“Inquire  below,  then,"  persisted  Frederic.  “Somebody  will 
certainly  know,  and  I must  find  her." 

Isabel  complied  with  the  request,  and  soon  returned  with  the 
information  that  no  one  knew  aught  of  Mrs.  Merton's  where- 
abouts, though  it  was  generally  believed  that  she  came  from 
the  country,  and  at  the  time  of  coming  to  the  hotel  was  visit- 
ing friends  in  the  city. 

“Find  her  friends,  then,"  continued  Frederic,  growing  more 
and  more  excited  and  impatient. 

This,  too,  was  impossible,  for  everything  pertaining  to  Mrs. 
Merton  was  mere  conjecture.  No  one  could  tell  where  she 
lived,  or  whither  she  had  gone ; and  the  sick  man  lamented  the 
circumstance  so  often  that  Isabel  once  more  lost  her  temper 
entirely,  wondering  why  he  should  be  so  very  anxious  about  a 
woman  who  had  been  well  paid  for  her  services — “yes,  more 
than  paid,  for  her  price  was  a most  exorbitant  one." 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Huntington,  who,  on  the  receipt  of  Isabel’s 
telegram,  had  started  immediately,  arrived  laden  with  trunks, 
handboxes,  and  bags,  for  the  old  lady  was  rather  dressy,  and 
fancied  a large  hotel  a good  place  to  show  her  new  clothes. 
On  learning  that  Frederic  was  very  much  better,  and  that  she 
had  been  sent  for  merely  on  the  score  of  propriety,  she  seemed 
somewhat  out  of  humor.  “Not  that  she  wanted  Frederic  to 
die,"  she  said,  “and  she  was  glad  of  course  that  he  was 
getting  well,  but  she  didn’t  like  to  be  scared  the  way  she  was  ; 
a telegram  always  made  her  stomach  tremble  so  that  she  didn’t 
get  over  it  in  a week;  she  had  traveled  day  and  night  to  get 
there,  and  didn’t  know  what  she  should  have  done  if  she 
hadn't  met  Rudolph  McVicar  in  Cincinnati." 

“Rudolph!"  exclaimed  Isabel.  “Pray,  where  is  he  now?" 

“Here  in  this  very  hotel,"  returned  her  mother.  “He  came 
with  me  all  the  way,  and  seemed  greatly  interested  in  you. 


MARIAN  GREY 


125 


asking  a thousand  questions  about  when  you  expected  to  be 
married.  Said  he  supposed  Frederic’s  illness  would  postpone 
it  a while,  and  when  I told  him  you  wasn’t  even  engaged  as  I 
knew  of,  he  looked  disappointed.  I believe  Rudolph  has  re- 
formed !” 

“The  wretch !”  muttered  Isabel,  who  rightly  guessed  that 
Rudolph’s  interest  was  only  feigned. 

He  had  heard  of  her  sudden  departure  for  New  York,  and 
he  had  heard  also — Agnes  Gibson  being  the  source  whence  the 
information  came — that  she  might,  perhaps,  be  married  as 
soon  as  Frederic  was  able  to  sit  up.  Accordingly,  he  had  him- 
self started  northward,  stumbling  upon  Mrs.  Huntington  in 
Cincinnati,  and  coming  with  her  to  New  York,  where  he 
stopped  at  the  same  hotel,  intending  to  remain  there  and  wait 
for  the  result.  He  did  not  care  to  meet  Isabel  face  to  face, 
while  she  was  quite  anxious  to  avoid  an  interview  with  him; 
and  after  a few  days  she  ceased  to  be  troubled  about  him  at 
all.  Frederic  absorbed  all  her  thoughts,  he  appeared  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  he  used  to  be — talking  but  little  either  to 
herself  or  her  mother,  and  lying  nearly  all  the  day  with  his 
eyes  shut,  though  she  knew  he  was  not  asleep;  and  she  tried 
in  vain  to  fathom  the  subject  of  his  reflections.  But  he 
guarded  that  secret  well,  and  day  after  day  he  thought  on, 
living  over  again  the  first  weeks  of  his  sickness  in  that  cham- 
ber, until  at  last  the  conviction  was  fixed  upon  his  mind  that, 
spite  of  her  short  hair,  spite  of  the  probable  age,  spite  of 
the  story  about  Mrs.  Merton’s  daughter,  or  yet  the  letter 
from  Sarah  Green,  that  young  girl  who  had  watched  with  him 
so  long  and  then  disappeared  so  mysteriously,  was  none  other 
than  Marian — his  wife.  He  did  not  shudder  now  when  he  re- 
repeated that  last  word  to  himself.  It  sounded  pleasantly, 
for  he  knew  it  was  connected  with  the  sweet,  womanly  love 
which  had  saved  him  from  death.  The  brown  hair  which 
Isabel  had  mentioned  he  rejected  as  an  impossibility.  It  had 
undoubtedly  looked  dark  to  her,  but  it  was  red  still,  though 
worn  short  in  her  neck,  for  he  remembered  that  distinctly. 
Sarah  Green’s  letter  was  a forgery — Alice’s  predictions  were 
true,  and  Marian  still  lived. 

But  where  was  she  now  ? Why  had  she  left  him  so  abruptly, 
and  would  he  ever  find  her?  Yes,  he  would,  he  said.  He 
would  spare  no  time,  no  pains,  no  money  in  the  search;  and 
when  he  found  her  he  would  love  and  cherish  her  as  she  de- 
served. He  was  beginning  to  love  her  now,  and  he  won- 
dered at  his  infatuation  for  Isabel,  whose  real  character  was 
becoming  more  and  more  apparent  to  him.  His  changed  de- 


126 


MARIAN  GREY 


meanor  made  her  cross  and  fretful;  while  Agnes  Gibson’s 
letter,  asking  when  she  was  to  be  married,  and  saying  people 
there  expected  her  to  return  to  Kentucky  a bride,  only  in- 
creased her  ill  humor,  which  manifested  itself  several  times 
toward  her  mother,  in  Frederic’s  presence. 

At  last,  in  a fit  of  desperation,  she  wrote  to  Agnes  Gibson 
that  she  never  expected  to  be  married — certainly  not  to  Fred- 
eric Raymond — and  if  every  young  lady  matrimonially  in- 
clined should  nurse  her  intended  husband  through  a course  of 
fever,  she  guessed  they  would  become  disgusted  with  man- 
kind generally,  and  that  man  in  particular ! This  done,  Isabel 
felt  better— so  much  better,  indeed,  that  she  resolved  upon  an- 
other trial  to  bring  about  her  desired  object,  and  one  day,  about 
two  weeks  after  her  mother’s  arrival,  she  said  to  Frederic: 
“Now  that  you  are  nearly  well,  I believe  I shall  go  to  New 
Haven,  and,  after  a little,  mother  will  come,  too.  I shall  re- 
main there,  I think,  though  mother,  I suppose^  will  keep  house 
for  you  this  year,  as  she  has  engaged  to  do.” 

To  this  suggestion  Frederic  did  not  reply  just  as  she 
thought  he  would. 

It  was  a good  idea,  he  said,  for  her  to  visit  her  old  home, 
and  he  presumed  she  would  enjoy  it.  Then  he  added,  very 
faintly:  “Alice  will  need  a teacher  here  quite  as  much  as  m 

Kentucky,  and  you  can  retain  your  situation  if  you  choose.” 
Isabel  bit  her  lip,  and  her  black  eyes  flashed  angrily,  as  she 
replied : , . ; 

“I  am  tired  of  teaching  only  one  pupil,  for  there  is  nothing 
to  interest  me,  and  I am  all  worn  out,  too.” 

She  did  look  pale,  and,  touched  with  pity,  Frederic  said  to 
her,  very  kindly : ; 

“You  do  seem  weary,  Isabel.  You  have  been  confined  with 
me  too  long,  and  I think  you  had  better  go  at  once.  I will  jun 
down  to  see  you,  if  possible,  before  I return  to  Kentucky.” 
This  gave  her  hope,  and,  drying  her  eyes,  which  were  filled 
with  tears,  Isabel  chatted  pleasantly  with  him  about  his  future 
plans,  which  had  been  somewhat  disarranged  by  his  unex- 
pected illness.  He  could  not  now  hope  to  get  settled  at  River- 
side, as  he  called  his  new  home,  until  some  time  in  June — per- 
haps not  so  soon— but  he  would  let  her  know,  he  said,  in  time 
to  meet  him  there. 

A day  or  two  after  this  conversation  Isabel  started  for  New 
Haven,  whither  in  the  course  of  a week  she  was  followed  by 
both  her  mother  and  Rudolph,  the  latter  of  whom  was  deter- 
mined not  to  lose  sight  of  her  until  sure  that  the  engagement, 
which  he  somewhat  doubted,  did  not  in  reality  exist. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE  SEARCH 

When  the  carriage  containing  Mrs.  Huntington  rolled 
iwav  from  the  hotel,  Frederic,  who  was  standing  upon  the 
iteos  experienced  a feeling  of  relief  in  knowing  that,  as  far 
is  personal  acquaintances  were  concerned,  he  was  now  alone 
md  free  to  commence  his  search  for  Marian.  Each  day  the 
;onviction  had  been  strengthened  that  she  was  alive— that  she 
rad  been  with  him  a few  weeks  before — and  now  every  energy 
should  be  devoted  to  finding  her.  Once  he  thought  oi  adver- 
tising, but  she  might  not  see  the  paper,  and  as  he  rather 
shrank  from  making  his  affairs  thus  public,  he  abandoned  the 
project,  determining,  however,  to  leave  no  other  means  un- 
tried: he  would  hunt  the  city  over,  inquire  at  every  house,  and 
then  scour  the  surrounding  country.  It  might  be  months,  or 
it  might  be  years,  ere  his  object  were  accomplished;  but  ac- 
complish it  he  would,  and  with  a brave,  hopeful  heart,  he 
started  out,  taking  first  a list  of  all  the  Mertons  m the  direc- 
tory, then  searching  them  out  and  making  of  them  the  most 
minute  inquiries,  except,  indeed,  in  cases  where  he  knew,  by 
the  nature  of  their  surroundings,  that  none  of  their  household 
had  officiated  in  the  capacity  of  nurse.  The  woman  who  had 
taken  care  of  him  was  poor  and  uneducated,  and  consequently 
he  confined  himself  mostly  to  that  class  of  people. 

But  all  in  vain.  No  familiar  face  ever  came  at  his  calk 
Nobody  knew  her  whom  he  sought — no  one  had  heard  of 

Marian  Lindsey.  , , , . - 

It  was  now  three  weeks  since  he  commenced  his  search 
and  he  was  beginning  to  despair  of  success..  His  presence,  he 
knew,  was  needed  in  Kentucky,  where  Alice  was  left  alone 
with  the  negroes,  and  where  his  arrangements  for  moving 
were  not  yet  complete.  His  house  on  the  river  was  waiting 
for  him,  the  people  wondering  why  he  did  not  come,  and  as 
he  sat  thinking  it  all  over,  he  resolved  at  last  to  go  home  and 
bring  Alice  to  Riverside— to  send  for  Mrs.  Huntington  as 
had  been  previously  arranged,  and  then  begin  the  search 
again.  Of  Isabel,  too,  he  thought,  remembering  his  hasty 
promise  of  going  to  New  Haven,  but  this  he  could  not  do. 
So  he  penned  her  a few  lines,  telling  her  it  was  impossible 
Marian  Grey  127 


128 


MARIAN  GREY 


for  him  to  come,  and  saying  that  on  his  return  to  Riverside 
with  Alice,  he  should  expect  to  find  her  mother  and  herself 
waiting  to  receive  him. 

“I  cannot  do  less  than  this,”  he  said.  “Isabel  has  been  with 
me  a long  time,  and  though  I do  not  feel  toward  her  as  I did, 
I pity  her;  for  I am  afraid  she  likes  me  better  than  she 
should.  I have  given  her  encouragement,  too;  but  when  I 
come  back,  I will  talk  with  her  candidly.  I will  tell  her  how 
it  is,  and  offer  her  a home  with  me  so  long  as  she  shall 
choose  to  stay.  I will  be  to  her  a brother ; and  when  Marian 
is  found,  the  two  shall  be  like  sisters,  until  some  man  who  has 
not  a wife  already  takes  Isabel  from  my  hands.” 

Thus  deciding,  Frederic  wrote  to  Alice,  telling  her  when  he 
should  probably  be  home,  and  saying  he  should  stop  for  a day 
or  so  at  Yonkers. 

That  afternoon,  as  Frederic  was  sauntering  leisurely  down 
the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  depot — for  he  intended  going 
to  Yonkers  that  night — he  stumbled  upon  Ben,  whose  charac- 
teristic exclamation  was:  “Wall,  square,  glad  to  see  you  out 
ag’in,  but  I didn’t  b’lieve  I ever  should  when  I sent  word  to 
that  gal.  She  come,  I s’pose?” 

“Yes,”  returned  Frederic,  “and  I am  grateful  to  you  for 
your  kindness  in  telegraphing  to  my  friends.  How  did  you 
know  I was  sick?” 

“Oh,  I’m  alius  ’round,”  said  Ben.  “Know  one  of  them 
boys  at  the  hotel,  and  he  told  me.  I s’posed  you’d  die,  and  I 
should  of  come  to  see  you  mabby,  only  I had  to  go  off  peddlin’. 
Bizness  afore  pleasure,  you  know.” 

This  remark  seemed  to  imply  that  Frederic’s  dying  would 
have  been  a source  of  pleasure  to  the  Yankee,  but  the  young 
man  knew  that  he  did  not  intend  it,  and  the  two  walked  on 
together ; Ben  plying  his  companion  with  questions,  and  learn- 
ing that  both  Isabel  and  Mrs.  Huntington  were  now  in  New 
Haven,  but  would  probably  go  to  Riverside  when  Frederic  re- 
turned from  Kentucky. 

“That’s  a grand  place,”  said  Ben ; “fixed  up  in  tiptop  style 
too.  I took  my  sister  out  to  see  it,  and  she  thought  ’twas 
pretty  slick.  Wouldn’t  wonder  if  you’re  goin’  to  marry  that 
black-haired  gal,  by  the  looks  of  things?”  and  Ben’s  gray 
eyes  peered  sideways  at  Frederic,  who  replied:  “I  certainly 

have  no  such  intentions.” 

“You  don’t  say  it,”  returned  Ben.  “I  shouldn’t  of  took  the 
trouble  to  sent  for  her  if  I hadn’t  s’posed  you  was  kinder 
courtin’.  My  sister  thought  you  was,  and  she  or’to  know, 
bein’s  she’s  been  through  the  mill.” 


MARIAN  GREY 


129 


Frederic  winced  under  Ben’s  pointed  remarks,  and  as  a 
means  of* changing  the  conversation,  said:  “If  I am  not  mis- 

taken you  spoke  of  your  sister  when  in  Kentucky,  and  Alice 
became  quite  interested.  I’ve  heard  her  mention  the  girl  sev- 
eral times.  What  is  her  name?”  „ 

“Do  look  at  that  hoss — flat  on  the  pavement.  He  s a goner, 
Ben  exclaimed,  by  way  of  gaining  a little  time. 

Frederic’s  attention  was  immediately  diverted  from  tfen, 
who  thought  to  himself : “I’ll  try  him  with  half  the  truth,  an 
if  he’s  anyways  bright  he’ll  guess  the  rest. 


common  name.  Did  you  ever  hear  it  afore  ? 

“Marian !”  gasped  Frederic,  turning  instantly  pale,  while  a 
strange,  undefinable  feeling  swept  over  him— a feeling  that  he 
had  never  been  so  near  finding  her  as  now. 

“Excuse  me,  square,”  said  Ben,  whose  keen  eye  lost  not  a 
single  change  in  the  expression  of  Frederic  s face.  1 m such 
a blunderin’  critter!  That  little  blind  gal  told  me  your  first 
wife  was  Marian,  and  I or’to  known  better  than  to  harrer 
your  feelings  with  the  name”  . . « . r 

“Never  mind,”  returned  Frederic  faintly,  but  tell  me  of 
your  sister — and  now  I think  of  it,  you  said  once  you  were 
from  Down  East,  which  I supposed  referred  to  one  of  the 
New  England  States;  Vermont,  perhaps?” 

“Did  use  to  live  in  Massachusetts,  replied  Ben.  But  can  t 

a feller  move?”  . , 

Frederic  admitted  that  he  could,  and  Ben  continued.  - 
or’to  told  you,  I s’pose,  that  Marian  ain’t  my  own  flesh  and 
blood — she’s  adopted,  that’s  all.  But  I love  her  jest  the  same. 
Her  name  is  Marian  Grey,”  and  Ben  looked  earnestly  at  Fred- 
eric thinking  to  himself : “Won’t  he  take  the  hint  when  he 

knows,  or  at°least  had  or’to  know  that  her  mother’s  name  was 

Grey?”  . . 

But  hints  were  lost  on  Frederic.  Ho  had  no  suspicion  of 
the  truth,  and  Ben  proceeded : “All  her  kin  is  dead,  and  as 

mother  hadn’t  no  daughter  she  took  this  orphan,  and  1 m 
workin’  hard  to  give  her  a good  schoolin’.  She  can  play  the 
planner  like  fury,  and  talks  the  French  grammar  most  as  well 
as  I do  the  English!” 

This  brought  a smile  to  Frederics  face,  and  he  did  not  tor 
a moment  think  of  doubting  Ben’s  word. 

“You  seem  very  proud  of  your  sister,  he  said  at  last,  and 
as  I owe  you  something  for  caring  for  me  and  telegraphing 


130 


MARIAN  GREY 


for  my  friends,  let  me  show  my  gratitude  by  giving  you  some- 
thing for  this  Marian  Grey.  What  shall  it  be?  Is  she  fond 
of  jewelry?  Most  young  girls  are.” 

Ben  stuck  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pocket  and  seemed  to  be 
thinking,  then,  removing  his  hands,  he  replied : “Mabby 

you’ll  think  it  sassy,  but  there  is  somethin’  that  would  please 
us  both.  I told  her  about  you  when  I came  from  Kentucky 
and  she  cried  like  a baby  over  that  blind  gal.  Then,  when  you 
was  sick,  she  felt  worried  ag’in,  and  wanted  the  wust  kind  to 
see  you,  ’cause,  I beg  your  pardon,  square,  but  I told  her  you 
was  han’some.  Jest  give  us  your  picter,  if  it  ain’t  bigger  than 
my  thumb,  and  would  it  be  asking  too  much  for  you  when  you 
git  home  to  send  me  the  blind  gal’s.  She’s  an  angel,  and  I 
should  feel  so  good  to  have  her  face  in  my  pocket.  You  can 
direct  to  Ben  Butter  worth — but  law,  you  won’t,  I know  you 
won’t.” 

“Why  not?”  asked  Frederic,  laughing  at  the  novel  request. 
“Mine  you  shall  surely  have,  and  Alice’s  also,  if  she  consents 
Come  with  me  now,  for  we  are  opposite  a photograph  gallery.” 
The  result  of  this  was  that  in  a short  time  Ben  held  in  his 
hand  a correct  likeness  of  Frederic,  which  was  of  priceless 
value  to  him,  because  he  knew  how  highly  it  would  be  prized 
by  her  for  whom  alone  he  had  requested  it. 

As  they  passed  out  into  the  street  again,  Frederic  said  to 
him  rather  abruptly:  “Do  you  know  Sarah  Green?” 

“No,”  answered  Ben,  and  Frederic  continued: 

“Do  you  know  Mrs.  Merton?” 

Ben  started  a little,  and  then,  repeating  the  name,  replied: 
‘Ain’t  acquainted  with  that  name  neither.  Who  is  she?” 
“She  took  care  of  me,”  returned  Frederic,  “and  I would  like 
to  find  her  and  thank  her  for  her  kindness.” 

“I  shouldn’t  s’pose  she  could  of  took  care  of  you  alone,  sick 
as  you  was,”  said  Ben,  waiting  eagerly  for  the  answer,  which, 
had  it  been  what  he  desired,  might  have  led  to  the  unfolding 
of  the  mystery. 

But  Frederic  shrank  from  making  Ben  his  confidant.  “It 
was  hard  for  her  until  Miss  Huntington  came.” 

“Blast  Miss  Huntington,”  thought  Ben,  now  thoroughly 
satisfied  that  his  companion  did  not  care  to  discover  Marian 
or  he  would  certainly  say  something  about  her. 

Both  she  and  his  mother  were  sure  that  he  knew  she  had 
been  with  him  in  his  sickness,  and  if  he  really  wished  to  find 
her,  he  would  speak  of  her  as  well  as  of  Mrs.  Merton.^ 
“But  he  don’t,”  thought  Ben.  “He  don’t  care  a straw  for 
her,  and  she’s  right  when  she  says  she  won’t  run  after  him 


MARIAN  GREY 


131 


any  more.  He  don’t  like  Isabel  none  too  well,  and  I raally 
b’lieve  the  man  is  crazy.” 

This  settled  the  matter  satisfactorily  with  Ben,  who  accom- 
panied Frederic  to  the  depot,  waiting  there  until  the  departure 

of  the  train.  ... 

“Give  my  regrets  to  that  Josh,  and  the  rest  of  the  niggers, 
and  don’t  on  no  account  forget  the  picter,”  were  his  last 
words  as  he  quitted  the  car,  and  then  hurried  home  impatient 
to  show  Marian  his  surprise. 

He  found  her  sitting  by  the  open  window— a listless,  dreamy 
look  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  a sad  expression  upon  her  face, 
which  said  that  her  thoughts  were  far  away  in  the  Southland, 
where  Nature  had  decked  her  beautiful  home  with  all  the 
glories  of  the  merry  month  of  May  and  the  first  bright  days 

of  June.  , „ . 

“Darling  Alice,”  she  murmured,  “I  shall  never  see  her 
again” ; and  her  tears  were  dropping  upon  her  lap  just  as  Ben 
came  in,  and  began: 

“Wall,  wee  one,  I’ve  seen  the  square,  and  talked  with  him 

of  you.”  „ , . , . 

“Oh,  Ben,  Ben !”— and  Marian’s  face  was  spotted  with  her 
excitement— “what  made  you?  What  did  he  say,  and  where 


is  he  ?” 

“Gone  home,”  answered  Ben ; “but  he  had  this  took  on  pur- 
pose for  you” ; and  he  tossed  the  picture  into  her  lap. 

“It  is— it  is  Frederic.  Oh,  Mrs.  Burt,  it  is,”  and  Marian  s 
lips  touched  the  glass,  from  which  the  face  of  Frederic  Ray- 
mond looked  kindly  out  upon  her. 

It  was  thinner  than  when  she  used  to  know  it,  but  fuller, 
stronger  looking  than  when  it  lay  among  the  tumbled  pillows. 
The  eyes,  too,  were  hollow,  and  not  so  bright,  while  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  rich,  brown  hair  was  not  so  thrifty  as  of  old. 
But  it  was  Frederic  still,  her  Frederic,  and  she  pressed  it 
again  to  her  lips,  while  her  heart  thrilled  with  the  joyful 
thought  that  he  remembered  her,  and  had  sent  her  this  price- 
less token.  But  why  had  he  gone  home  without  her — why 
had  he  left  her  there  alone  if  he  really  cared  for  finding  her? 
Slowly,  as  a cloud  obscures  a summer  sky,  a shadow  crept 
over  her  face — a shadow  of  doubt,  of  distrust.  Theie  was 
something  she  had  not  heard,  and  with  quivering  lip  she  said 
to  Ben:  “What  does  it  mean?  You  have  not  told  me  why  he 

i sent  it.”  , , , , T, 

It  was  cruel  to  deceive  her  as  he  had  done,  and  so  Ben 
thought  when  he  saw  the  heaving  of  her  chest,  the  pressure 
of  her  hands,  and,  more  than  all,  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  as 


132 


MARIAN  GREY 


he  told  her  why  Frederic  sent  to  her  that  picture;  that  it  was 
not  taken  for  Marian  Lindsey,  but  rather  for  Marain  Grey, 
adopted  sister  of  Benjamin  Butterworth. 

“He  does  not  wish  to  find  me,”  said  Marian,  when  Ben  had 
finished  speaking.  “We  shall  never  be  reconciled,  and  it  is 
just  as  well,  perhaps.” 

“I  think  so,  too,”  rejoined  Ben,  “or  at  any  rate  I’d  let  him 
rest  for  a spell,  and  learn  everything  there  is  in  books  for 
womankind  to  learn.  You  shall  go  to  college  if  you  say  so, 
and  bimeby,  when  the  Old  Nick  himself  wouldn't  know  you, 
I'll  get  you  a chance  to  teach  that  blind  gal,  and  he'll  fall  in 
love  with  his  own  wife;  see  if  he  don’t,”  and  Ben  stroked  the 
curls  within  his  reach  very  caressingly,  thinking  to  himself: 
“I  won't  tell  her  now  'bout  Alice's  picter,  'cause  it  may  not 
come,  but  I’ll  cheer  her  up  the  best  way  that  I can.  She 
grows  handsomer  every  day  of  her  life,”  and  as  this,  in  Ben's 
estimation,  was  the  one  thing  of  all  others  to  be  desired  by 
Marian,  he  could  not  forbear  complimenting  her  aloud  upon 
her  rapid  improvement  in  looks. 

“Thank  you,”  she  answered,  smiling  faintly,  for,  to  her, 
beauty  or  accomplishments  were  of  little  avail  if,  in  the  end. 
Frederic's  love  were  not  secured. 


CHAPTER  XV 


HOME  AGAIN 

Frederic  was  coming  home  again— “Marster  Frederic, 
■vho,  as  Dinah  said,  “had  been  so  near  to  kingdom-come  that 
ie  could  hear  the  himes  they  sung  on  Sundays.” 

Joyfully  the  blacks  told  to  each  other  the  glad  news,  which 
vvas  an  incentive  for  them  all  to  bestir  themselves  as  they  had 
lot  done  before  during  the  whole  period  of  their  master’s  ab- 
Dear little  Alice ! She  built  bright  castles  in  the  air  that 
summer  day,  and  they  were  as  real  to  her  as  if  Frederic  had 
written:  “Marian  is  found  and  coming  home  with  me. 

“She  loved  a great  many  flowers  around  her,”  she  said,  and 
groping  her  way  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  yard,  she 
fathered  from  the  tree  beneath  the  library  window  a profu- 
sion of  buds  and  half-opened  roses,  which  she  arranged  into 
bouquets,  and  placed  in  vases  for  Marian,  just  as  Marian  had 
gathered  flowers  for  her  from  the  garden  far  away  on  th& 
river. 

It  was  done  at  last;  and  very  inviting  that  pleasant,  airy 
apartment  looked  with  its  handsome  furniture,  its  bright  car- 
pet and  muslin  curtains  of  snowy  white,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
towering  beds.  There  were  flowers  on  the  mantel,  flowers  on 
the  table,  flowers  in  the  window,  flowers  everywhere,  and  their 
sweet  perfume  filled  the  air  with  a delicious  fragrance,  which 
Dinah  declared  was  “a  heap  sight  better  than  that  scent  Miss 
Isabel  used  to  put  on  her  hankercher  and  fan.  Ugh,  that 
fan !”  and  Dinah’s  nose  was  elevated  at  the  very  thought  of 
ilsabel’s  sandal-wood  fan,  which  had  been  her  special  ab- 
horrence. # 

“Isn’t  it  most  time  for  Uncle  Phil  to  start?”  asked  Alice, 
when  Dinah  had  finished  fixing  the  room. 

“Yes,  high  time,”  answered  Dinah,  “but  Phil  is  so  slow. 
I’ll  jest  hurry  him  up,”  and,  followed  by  Alice,  she  descended 
the  stairs,  meeting  in  the  lower  hall  with  Lyd,  who  held  in  her 
hand  a brown  envelope,  which  she  passed  to  Alice,  saying: 
“One  dem  letters  what  come  like  lightnin’  on  the  telegraph. 
A boy  done  brung  it.” 

“A  telegram,”  cried  Alice,  feeling  at  first  alarmed.  “Go 
for  Mrs.  Warren  to  read  it.” 

Marian  Grey  333 


134. 


MARIAN  GREY 


But  the  overseer’s  wife  was  absent,  as  was  also  her  hus> 
band,  and  neither  the  blacks  nor  Alice  knew  what  to  do. 

“There  isn’t  more  than  a line  and  a half,”  said  Alice,  pass^ 
ing  her  finger  over  the  paper  and  feeling  the  thick  sand  which 
had  been  sifted  upon  it.  “1  presume  something  has  detained 
Frederic,  and  he  has  sent  word  that  he  will  not  be  here  to- 
day.” 

Le  me  see  dat  ar,”  said  Phil,  who  liked  to  impress  his 
companions  with  a sense  of  his  superior  wisdom,  and,  adjust- 
ing his  iron-bowed  spec’s,  he  took  the  letter,  which  in  reality 
was  Greek  to  him. 

After  an  immense  amount  of  wry  faces  and  loud  whisper- 
ing he  said: 

“Yes,  honey,  you’re  correct,  though  Marster  Frederic  has 
sich  an  onery  hand-write  that  it  takes  me  a heap  of  time  to 
make  it  out.  It  reads,  ‘Somethin’  has  detained  Frederic,  and 
he  has  sent  word  that  he’ll  be  here  to-morry.’  ” And,  with 
the  utmost  gravity,  Phil  took  off  his  spec’s  and  was  walking 
away  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  done  something  his  com- 
panions could  never  hope  to  do,  when  Hetty  called  out: 

“Wonder  if  he  ’spects  us  to  swaller  dat  ar,  and  think  he 
kin  read,  when  he  just  done  said  over  what  Miss  Alice  say. 
Can’t  fool  dis  chile.” 

But  alas  for  Uncle  Phil.  Mrs.  Warren  had  made  a mistake 
in  Frederic’s  last  letter,  the  young  man  writing  he  should  be 
home  the  fifteenth,  whereas  she  had  read  it  the  seventeenth; 
afterward,  Frederic  had  decided  to  leave  Riverside  one  day 
earlier,  and  had  telegraphed  from  Cincinnati  for  Phil  to  meet 
him.  Finding  neither  carriage  nor  servant  in  waiting,  he 
hired  a conveyance,  and  about  four  o’clock  P.  M.  from  every 
cabin  door  there  came  the  joyful  cry: 

“Marster  Frederic  has  come.” 

“Told  you  so,”  said  Hetty,  with  an  exultant  glance  at  Uncle 
Phil,  who  wisely  made  no  reply,  but  hastened  with  the  rest  to 
tell  his  master:  “How  d’ye?” 

“How  is  it  that  someone  did  not  meet  me?”  Frederic  asked, 
after  the  first  noisy  outburst  had  somewhat  subsided.  “Didn’t 
you  get  the  dispatch?” 

The  negroes  looked  at  Phil,  who  stammered  out : 

“Yes,  we  done  got  it,  but  dem  old  iron  spec’s  of  mine  is 
mighty  nigh  wore  out ; can’t  see  in  ’em  at  all,  and  I read  ‘to- 
morrowy,’  instead  of  ‘today.’  ” 

The  loud  shout  which  followed  this  excuse  enlightened 
Frederic  as  to  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and  he,  too,  joined  in 
the  laugh,  telling  the  crestfallen  Phil  that  “he  should  surely 


MARIAN  GREY 


135 


have  a new  pair  of  silver  spec’s  which  would  read  ‘today’  in- 
stead of  ‘to-morry.’”  , , , 

“But  where  is  Alice  ?”  he  continued.  “Why  don  t she  come 

t0  ‘\Sure  Plough,”  returned  Dinah.  “Whar  kin  she  be,  when 
she  was  so  fierce  to  have  you  come ! Reckon  she’s  up  in  the 
best  charmber,  she’s  been  fixin’  up  for  somethin’,  she  wouldn’t 

tell  what.”  . . 

“I’ll  go  and  see,”  said  Frederic,  starting  in  quest  of  the 
little  girl,  who,  as  Dinah  had  conjectured,  was  in  the  front 
chamber — the  one  prepared  with  so  much  care  for  Marian. 

She  had  been  sitting  by  the  window  when  she  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  coming  up  the  avenue.  Then  the  joyful  cry 
of  “Marster’s  cornin’,”  came  to  her  quick  ear,  and,  starting  up, 
she  bent  her  head  to  listen  for  another  voice — a voice  she  had 
not  heard  for  many  a weary  month.  But  she  listened  in  vain, 
for  Marian  was  not  there.  Gradually  she  became  convinced 
of  the  fact,  and,  laying  her  face  upon  the  window  sill,  she  was 
weeping  bitterly,  when  Frederic  came  in.  Pausing  for  a 
moment  in  the  door,  he  glanced  around,  first  at  the  well-re- 
membered chair,  then  at  the  books  upon  the  table,  then  at  the 
flowers,  and  then  he  knew  why  all  this  had  been  done. 

“I  would  that  it  might  have  been  so,”  he  thought,  and  go- 
ing to  the  weeping  Alice  he  lifted  up  her  head  and  pushing 
her  hair  from  her  forehead,  whispered  to  her  softly : “Darl- 

ing, was  it  for  Marian  you  gathered  all  these  flowers?” 

“Yes,  Frederic,  for  Marian,”  and  Alice  sobbed  aloud. 

Taking  her  in  his  lap,  Frederic  replied,  “Did  you  think  I 
would  bring  her  home  ?” 

“Yes,  I thought  you  had  found  her,  and  I was  so  glad. 
What  made  you  write  me  that?” 

“Alice,  I did  find  her,”  returned  Frederic;  “I  have  seen 
her,  I have  talked  with  her.  Marian  is  alive.” 

At  these  words,  so  decidedly  spoken,  the  blind  eyes  flashed 
up  into  Frederic’s  face  eagerly,  wistfully,  as  if  they  fain 
would  burst  their  veil  of  darkness  and  see  if  he  told  her 
truly. 

“Is  it  true?  Oh,  Frederic,  you  are  not  deceiving  me?  I 
can’t  bear  any  more  disappointment,”  and  Alice’s  face  and  lips 
were  white  as  ashes,  as  she  proceeded  further  to  question 
Frederic,  who  told  her  of  the  blue-eyed  girl  who,  just  as  he 
was  treading  the  brink  of  the  river  of  death,  had  come  to 
him  and  called  him  back  to  life  by  her  kind  acts  and  words  of 
love. 

“She  has  a sweet,  childish  face,”  said  he,  “fairer,  sweeter 


136 


MARIAN  GREY 


than  Marian’s  when  she  went  away — but  Marian  must  have 
changed,  for  I know  that  this  was  she.” 

“Frederic,”  she  began,  and  her  little  hand  played  with  his 
hair,  as  it  always  did  when  she  was  uncertain  as  to  how  her 
remarks  would  be  received.  “Frederic,  ain’t  you  loving 
Marian  a heap  more  than  you  did  when  she  went  away  ?” 
Frederic  did  not  hesitate  a moment,  ere  replying:  “Yes, 

darling,  I am,  for  that  young  girl  crept  away  down  into  my 
heart,  where  Marian  ought  to  have  been,  before  I asked  her 
to  be  my  wife;  and  I shall  find  her,  too.  I only  stopped  long 
enough  to  come  home  for  you.  The  house  is  ready  at  River- 
side, and  your  room  is  charming.” 

“Will  Isabel  be  there  ?”  was  Alice’s  next  inquiry,  and  Fred- 
eric answered  her  by  telling  her  what  he  knew  of  the  matter. 

It  was  nearly  three  weeks  ere  Frederic’s  arrangements  for 
leaving  Kentucky  were  entirely  completed,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  latter  part  of  July  that  he  finally  started  for  his 
new  home.  The  lamentations  of  the  negroes  were  noisy  in 
the  extreme,  though  far  more  moderate  than  they  would  have 
been  if  their  master  had  not  said  it  was  very  probable  he 
should  return  in  the  autumn,  and  merely  make  Riverside  a 
summer  residence.  If  he  found  Marian  he  should  come  back, 
of  course,  he  thought,  but  he  did  not  deem  it  best  to  raise 
hopes  which  might  never  be  realized,  so  he  said  nothing  of 
her  to  the  blacks,  who  supposed,  of  course,  that  she  was  dead. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a sultry  summer  day  when  the 
travelers  reached  Riverside,  where  they  found  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ington waiting  to  receive  them.  Frederic  had  written,  ap- 
prising her  of  the  time  when  he  should  probably  arrive,  and 
asking  her  to  be  there  if  possible.  Something,  too,  he  had 
said  of  Isabel,  but  that  young  lady  was  not  in  the  most 
amiable  mood,  and,  as  she  was  comfortably  domesticated  with 
another  distant  relative,  she  declined  going  to  Frederic  until 
he  came  to  some  understanding,  or  at  least  manifested  a 
greater  desire  to  have  her  with  him  than  his  recent  letters  in- 
dicated. Accordingly,  her  mother  went  alone,  and  Frederic 
was  not  sorry,  while  Alice  was  delighted.  Everything  seemed 
so  light  and  airy,  she  said,  just  as  though  a load  were  taken 
from  them,  and  like  a bird  she  flitted  about  the  house,  for  she 
needed  to  pass  through  a room  but  once  ere  she  was  familiar 
with  its  location,  and  could  find  it  easily.  With  her  own  cozy 
chamber  she  was  especially  pleased,  and  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  her  little  hands  had  examined  every  article  of  furniture, 
even  to  the  vases  which  held  the  withered  blossoms  gathered 
so  long  ago. 


MARIAN  GREY 


137 


“Somebody  must  have  put  these  here  for  me,  she  said,  and 
•hen  her  mind  went  back  to  the  morning  when  she,  too,  had 
fathered  flowers  for  an  expected  friend,  and  she  wondered 
nuch  who  had  done  a similar  service  for  her. 

Hearing  a step  in  the  hall,  she  asked  who  was  there. 

"It's  me,”  returned  Mrs.  Russell,  who  was  still  staying  at 
Riverside.  “Now,  I wonder  if  you  found  them  dried-up 
hings  so  soon,”  she  continued,  advancing  into  the  room.  i 
Should  have  ’em  out,  only  that  the  girl  who  fixed  em  made  me 
promise  to  leave  ’em  till  you  came.  Tears  like  she  b heved 
you’d  think  more  on  ’em  for  knowin  that  she  picked  em. 

“Girl  * Mrs.  Russell.  What  girl?”  And  Alices  eyes 
lighted  up,  for  she  thought  at  once  of  Marian,  who  would 
know,  of  course,  about  the  house,  and  as  she  would  naturally 
wish  to  see  it,  she  had  come  some  day  and  left  these  flowers, 
which  would  be  so  dear  to  her  if  she  found  her  suspicions 
correct.  “Who  was  the  girl?”  she  asked  again,  and  Mrs. 

Russell  replied:  u 

“I  don’t  remember  her  name,  but  she  went  all  over  the 
house,  fixing  things  in  Mr.  Raymond’s  room,  which  I didnt 
think  was  very  marnerly,  bein’  that  ’twant  none  o her  u* 
Then  she  come  in  here  and  set  ever  so  long  before  she  picked 
these  posies,  which  she  told  me  not  to  throw  away.  ^ 

“Yes,  it  was  Marian,”  came  involuntarily  from  Alices  lips, 
while  the  woman,  catching  at  her  name,  rejoined: 

“That  sounds  like  what  he  called  her— that  tall,  spooky 
chap,  her  brother — Ben  something.  She  said  he  had  seen  you 

at  the  South.”  , . „ , 

“Oh,  Ben  Butterworth.  It  was  his  adopted  sister  ; and 
Alice  turned  away,  feeling  greatly  disappointed  that  Marian 
Grey,  and  not  Marian  Lindsey,  had  arranged  those  flowers  for 


Not  long  after  this,  something  which  Mrs.  Huntington  said 
about  her  daughter  determined  Frederic  to  visit  her  and  make 
the  explanation  which  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  make,  for  he  knew 
he  had  given  her  some  reason  to  think  he  intended  asking  her 
to  be  his  wife.  He  accordingly  feigned  some  excuse  for  go- 
ing to  New  Haven,  and  one  morning  found  himself  at  the 
door  of  the  house  where  Isabel  was  stopping. 

“Give  her  this,”  he  said,  handing  his  card  to  the  servant, 
who  carried  it  at  once  to  the  delighted  young  lady. 

“Frederic  Raymond,”  read  Isabel.  “Oh,  yes.  Tell  him  111 
be  down  in  a moment,”  and  she  proceeded  to  arrange  her  hair 
a little  more  becomingly  and  to  make  several  changes  in  her 
dress,  so  that  the  one  moment  was  nearly  fifteen  ere  she 


138 


MARIAN  GREY 


started  for  the  parlor,  where  Frederic  was  rather  dreading  her 
coming,  for  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  wished  to  say. 

Half  timidly  she  greeted  him,  as  a bashful  maiden  is  sup- 
posed to  meet  her  lover,  and  seating  herself  at  a respectful 
distance  from  him,  she  asked  numberless  questions  concerning 
his  health,  her  numberless  friends  in  Kentucky,  her  mother, 
and  dear  little  Alice,  who,  she  presumed,  did  not  miss  her 
much. 

“Your  mother’s  presence  reminds  us  of  you  very  often,  of 
course,”  returned  Frederic,  “but  you  know  we  can  get  accus- 
tomed to  almost  anything,  and  Alice  seems  very  happy.” 

\ es,  sighed  Isabel.  “Y  ou  will  all  forget  me,  I suppose, 
even  to  mother — but  for  me,  I have  never  been  quite  con- 
tented since  I left  Kentucky.  I thought  it  tiresome  to  teach, 
and  perhaps  was  sometimes  impatient  and  unreasonable,  but  I 
have  often  wished  myself  back  again.  I don’t  seem  to  be 
living  for  anything  now,”  and  Isabel’s  black  eyes  studied  the 
pattern  of  the  carpet  quite  industriously. 

This  long  speech  called  for  a reply,  and  Frederic  said: 
You  would  not  care  to  come  back  again,  would  you?” 
“Why,  yes,”  returned  Isabel ; “I  would  rather  do  that  than 
nothing. 

For  a time  there  was  silence,  while  Frederic  fidgeted  in  his 
chair  and  Isabel  fidgeted  in  hers,  until  at  last  the  former  said: 

. T owe  you  an  explanation,  Isabel,  and  I have  come  to  make 
it.  Do  you  remember  our  conversation  in  the  parlor,  and  to 
what  it  was  apparently  tending,  when  we  were  interrupted  by 
Alice  ?” 

“Yes,”  replied  Isabel,  “and  I have  thought  of  it  so  often, 
wondering  if  you  were  in  earnest,  or  if  you  were  merely 
trifling  with  my  feelings.” 

“I  certainly  had  no  intention  of  trifling  with  you,”  returned 
Frederic;  “neither  do  I know  that  I was  really  in  earnest.  At 
all  events  it  is  fortunate  for  us  both  that  Alice  came  in  as  she 
did”;  and  having  said  so  much,  Frederic  could  now  look 
calmly  upon  a face  which  changed  from  a serene  summer  sky 
to  a dark,  lightning-laden  thunder-cloud  as  he  told  her  the 
story  he  had  come  to  tell. 

In  her  terrible  disappointment,  Isabel  so  far  forgot  herself 
as  to  lose  her  temper  entirely,  and  Frederic,  while  listening  to 
her  as  she  railed  at  him  for  what  she  called  his  perfidy,  won- 
dered how  he  ever  could  have  thought  her  either  womanly  or 
good. 

He  arose  to  go,  saying  to  her  as  he  reached  the  door : “I 
did  not  come  here  to  quarrel  with  you,  Bell,  I wish  still  to  be 


MARIAN  GREY 


139 


your  friend,  and  if  you  are  ever  in  trouble,  come  to  me  as  to 
a brother.  Marian  will,  I trust,  be  with  me,  then;  but  she 
will  be  kind  to  you,  for  ’tis  her  nature.” 

“Plague  on  that  Marian,”  was  Isabel’s  unladylike  thought 
as  the  door  closed  after  Frederic.  “I  wonder  how  many  times 
she’s  coming  to  life ! How  I wanted  to  charge  him  with  his 
meanness  in  marrying  her  fortune,  but  as  that  is  a secret  be- 
tween the  two,  he  would  have  suspected  me  of  treachery.  The 
villain!  I believe  I hate  him — and  only  to  think  how  those 
folks  in  Kentucky  will  laugh.  But  it’s  all  Agnes’  doings.  She 
inveigled  more  out  of  me  than  there  was  to  tell,  and  then  re- 
peated it  to  suit  herself.  The  jade ! I hope  she’s  happy  with 
that  old  man” — and  at  this  point  Isabel  broke  down  in  a flood 
of  tears,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  door  bell  rang  again,  and 
hurrying  up  the  stairs  she  listened  to  the  names,  which  this 
time  were  “Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rivers” — Agnes  and  her  husband — 
and  they  asked  for  her. 

Drying  her  tears,  and  bathing  her  eyes  until  the  redness 
was  gone,  Isabel  went  down  to  meet  the  “tattling  mischief- 
maker,”  embracing  her  very  affectionately,  and  telling  her 
how  delighted  she  was  to  see  her  again,  and  how  well  she  was 
looking. 

“Then  why  do  you  not  embark  on  the  sea  of  matrimony 
yourself,  if  you  think  it  such  a beautifier,”  said  Agnes. 

“Me?”  returned  Isabel  with  a toss  of  her  head;  “I  thought 
I wrote  you  that  I had  given  up  that  foolish  fancy.” 

“Indeed,  so  you  did,”  said  Agnes,  “but  I had  forgotten  it, 
and  when  I saw  Mr.  Raymond  at  the  Tontine,  where  we  are 
stopping,  I supposed,  of  course,  he  had  come  to  see  you,  and 
I said  to  Mr.  Rivers  it  was  really  too  bad,  for  from  what  he 
said  at  our  wedding  I fancied  there  was  nothing  in  it,  and 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  take  you  with  us  to  Florida,  as  I 
once  talked  of  doing.  Husband’s  sister  wants  a teacher  for 
her  children,  don’t  she,  dear?” 

Mr.  Rivers  was  about  to  answer  in  the  affirmative,  but  ere 
he  could  speak  Isabel  chimed  in : “Oh,  you  kind,  thoughtful 

soul.  Let  me  go  with  you  now;  do.  Nothing  could  please  me 
more.  I have  missed  your  society  so  much,  and  am  so  un- 
happy here!”  and  in  the  black  eyes  there  was  certainly  a 
tear,  which  instantly  touched  the  heart  of  the  sympathetic  old 
man,  who  anticipated  his  wife’s  reply,  by  saying:  “Certainly 

you  shall  go,  if  you  like.  You’ll  be  company  for  Mrs.  Rivers, 
and  if  I am  in  my  dotage,  as  some  say,  I’ve  sense  enough  to 
know  that  she  can’t  be  contented  all  the  time  with  her  grand- 


140 


MARIAN  GREY 


father.  Eh,  Aggie  ?”  and  he  chucked  his  bride  under  the  chin. 

“Disgusting !”  thought  Isabel. 

“Old  fool !”  thought  Agnes,  who  was  really  rather  pleased 
with  the  idea  of  having  Isabel  go  with  her  to  her  new  home, 
for  though  she  did  not  love  her  dear  friend,  she  rather  en- 
joyed her  company,  and  she  felt  that  anybody  was  acceptable 
who  would  stand  as  a third  person  between  herself  and  the 
grandfather  she  had  chosen. 

The  more  she  thought  of  the  plan  the  better  she  was  pleased 
with  it,  and  before  parting  the  whole  was  amicably  adjusted. 
Early  in  October,  Isabel  was  to  join  her  friend  in  Kentucky, 
and  go  with  her  from  thence  to  Florida,  where  she  was  either 
to  remain  with  Mrs.  Rivers,  or  to  teach  in  the  family  of  Mrs. 
McGregor,  Mr.  Rivers'  sister. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  GOVERNESS 


It  was  a bright  September  afternoon,  and  the  dense  foliage 
of  the  trees  looked  as  fresh  and  green  as  when  watered  by  the 
summer  showers,  save  here  and  there  a faded  leaf  came 
rustling  to  the  ground,  whispering  to  those  at  whose  feet  it 
fell  of  the  winter  which  was  hastening  on,  and  whose  breath 
even  now  was  on  the  northern  seas.  Softly  the  autumnal  sun- 
light fell  upon  the  earth,  and  the  birds  sang  as  gayly  m the 
trees  as  if  there  were  no  hearts  bereaved — no  small,  low 
rooms  where  all  was  darkness  and  gloom — no  humble  pro- 
cession winding  slowly  through  the  crowded  streets  and  out 
into  the  country,  where,  in  a new-made  grave,  a mother’s  love 
was  buried,  while  the  mourners,  two  in  number,  a young  man 
and  a girl,  held  each  other’s  hand  in  token  that  they  were 
bound  together  by  a common  sorrow.  ... 

For  many  days  that  window  had  been  darkened,  just  as  it 
was  when  Marian  Grey  lay  there  with  the  fever  in  her  veins; 
but  it  was  open  now,  and  the  west  wind  came  stealing  in, 
purifying  the  room  from  the  faint,  sickening  smell  of  coffins 
and  death,  for  the  Destroyer  had  been  there.  And  when  the 
mourners  came  back  from  that  grave  in  the  country,  one 
threw  himself  upon  the  lounge,  and  burying  his  face  in  the 
cushions,  sobbed  aloud: 

“Oh,  Marian,  it’s  terrible  to  be  an  orphan  and  have  no 

mother.”  . , , , . 

“Yes,  Ben,  ’tis  terrible,”  and  Marian  s tears  dropped  on  the 
hair  of  the  honest-hearted  Ben. 

Up  to  this  hour  he  had  restrained  his  grief,  but  now  that  he 
was  alone  with  Marian,  he  wept  on  until  the  sun  went  down 
and  the  night  shadows  were  creeping  into  the  room.  Then, 
lifting  up  his  head,  he  said:  “It  is  so  dark— so  dismal  now- 

and the  hardest  of  all  is  the  givin’  up  our  dear  oM  home  where 
mother  lived  so  long,  and  the  thinkin’  maybe  you  11  forget  me 
when  you  live  with  that  grand  lady.” 

“Forget  you ! Oh,  Ben,  I never  can  forget  how  much  you 
have  done  for  me,  denying  yourself  everything  for  my  sake,” 
said  Marian,  while  Ben  continued:  “Nor  won’t  you  be 

ashamed  of  me,  neither,  if  I should  come  sometimes  to  see 
Marian  Grey  141 


142 


MARIAN  GREY 


you?  I should  die  if  I could  not  once  in  a while  look  into 
your  eyes;  and  you’ll  let  me  come,  won’t  you,  Marian?” 

"Of  course  I will,”  she  replied,  continuing  after  a moment: 
"It  is  not  certain  yet  that  I go  to  Mrs.  Sheldon’s.  I have  not 
answered  her  last  letter  because — - You  know  what  we  talked 
about  before  your  mother  died  ?” 

"Yes,  yes,  I know,”  returned  Ben,  "but  I had  forgot  it — my 
heart  was  so  full  of  other  things.  I’ll  go  out  there  tomorrow. 
I’d  rather  you  should  teach  at  Riverside,  even  if  you’d  never 
heard  of  Frederic,  than  go  to  that  grand  lady,  who  might 
think,  because  you  was  a governess,  that  you  wan’t  fit  to  live 
in  the  same  house.” 

"I  have  no  fears  of  that,”  said  Marian.  "Mrs.  Harcourt 
says  she  is  an  estimable  woman;  but  still  I,  too,  would  rather 
go  to  Riverside,  if  I were  sure  Frederic  would  not  know  me. 
Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger?” 

"No,”  was  Ben’s  decided  answer,  and  in  this  opinion 
Marian  herself  concurred,  for  she  knew  that  within  the  last 
two  years  she  had  changed  so  much  that  none  who  saw  her 
when  first  she  came  to  Mrs.  Burt’s  would  recognize  her  now. 

About  three  months  before  the  night  of  which  we  are 
writing,  she  had  been  graduated  at  Mrs.  Iiarcourt’s  school 
with  every  possible  honor,  both  as  a musician  and  a scholar. 
There  had  never  been  her  equal  there  before,  Mrs.  Harcourt 
said,  and  when  her  friend,  Mrs.  Sheldon,  who  lived  in  Spring- 
field,  Mass.,  applied  to  her  for  a family  teacher,  she  warmly 
recommended  her  favorite  pupil,  Marian  Grey,  frankly 
stating,  however,  that  she  was  of  humble  origin — that  her 
adopted  mother  or  aunt  was  a poor  sewing  woman,  and  her 
adopted  brother  a peddlar.  This,  however,  made  no  difference 
with  Mrs.  Sheldon,  and  several  letters  had  passed  between 
herself  and  Marian,  who  would  have  accepted  the  liberal  offer 
at  once,  but  for  a lingering  hope  that  Ben  would  carry  out  his 
favorite  plan,  and  procure  her  a situation  as  teacher  at  River- 
side. She  had  forgotten  what  she  had  once  said  about  learning 
to  hate  Frederic,  and  the  possibility  of  living  again  beneath  the 
same  roof  with  him  made  her  heart  beat  faster  than  its  wont. 
She  had  occasionally  met  him  in  the  streets,  and  once  she 
was  sure  his  eye  had  rested  upon  her  in  passing,  but  she  knew 
by  its  expression  that  she  was  not  recognized,  and  when  Ben 
suggested  offering  her  services  as  Alice’s  governess,  she 
readily  consented. 

During  the  two  years  Ben  had  not  lost  sight  of  Frederic’s 
movements,  though  it  so  chanced  that  they  had  met  twice, 
once  just  after  the  receipt  of  Alice’s  picture,  which  had  been 


MARIAN  GREY 


113 


greeted  by  Marian  with  a shower  of  kisses  and  tears,  and  once 
he  previous  autumn,  when  Frederic  was  about  returning  to 
Kentucky,  for  with  his  changed  feelings  toward  Marian,  Mr. 
Raymond  felt  less  delicacy  in  using  her  money — less  aversion 

0 Redstone  Hall,  where  his  presence  was  really  needed,  for  a 
)ortion  of  the  year  at  least,  and  which  he  intended  making  his 
vinter  residence. 

But  he  was  at  Riverside  now,  and  Ben  was  about  going 
here  to  see  what  arrangements  could  be  made,  when  his 
nother’s  sudden  death  caused  both  himself  and  Marian  to  for- 
get the  subject  until  the  night  after  the  burial,  when,  without 

1 moment  forgetting  the  dead  or  the  dreary  blank  her  absence 
nade,  they  talked  together  of  the  future,  and  decided  that  on 
he  morrow  Ben  should  go  to  Riverside  and  see  if  there  were 
*oom  in  Frederic’s  house  for  Marian  Grey.  The  morrow 
:ame,  and  at  an  early  hour  Ben  started,  bidding  Marian  keep 
ip  her  spirits,  as  he  was  sure  of  bringing  her  good  tidings. 

Frederic  was  sitting  in  his  armchair,  which  stood  near  the 
window,  just  where  Marian  had  placed  it  two  years  and  a 
lalf  ago.  Not  that  it  had  never  been  moved  since  that  April 
uorning,  for,  freed  from  old  Dinah’s  surveillance,  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ington, who  was  still  at  Riverside,  proved  herself  a pattern 
lousekeeper,  and  the  chair  had  probably  been  moved  a thous- 
and times  to  make  room  for  the  broom  and  brush,  but  it  was 
in  its  old  place  now,  and  Frederic  was  sitting  in  it,  thinking 
□f  Marian  and  his  hitherto  fruitless  efforts  at  finding  her.  He 
was  beginning  to  get  discouraged,  and  still  each  time  that  he 
went  to  the  city  he  thought,  “Perhaps  I may  meet  her  today,” 
and  each  night,  as  the  hour  of  his  return  drew  near,  Alice 
waited  upon  the  piazza  when  the  weather  was  fine,  and  by  the 
window  when  it  was  cold,  listening  intently  for  another  step 
than  Frederic’s — a step  which  never  came,  and  even  Alice 
grew  less  hopeful,  while  Marian  seemed  farther  and  farther 
away  as  month  after  month  went  by  bringing  no  tidings  of 
her.  Frederic  knew  that  she  must  necessarily  have  changed 
somewhat  from  the  Marian  of  old,  for  she  was  a woman  now, 
but  he  should  readily  recognize  her,  he  said.  He  should  know 
her  by  her  peculiar  hair,  if  by  no  other  token.  So  when  his 
eye  rested  on  a face  of  surpassing  sweetness,  shaded  by  curls 
of  soft  chestnut  hair,  which  in  the  sunlight  wore  a rich  red 
tinge,  he  felt  a glow  like  that  which  one  experiences  in  gazing 
for  a single  instant  on  some  picture  of  rare  loveliness;  then 
the  picture  faded,  the  graceful  figure  glided  by,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  to  tell  how,  by  stretching  forth  his  hand,  he  might 
have  grasped  his  long-lost  Marian.  Moments  there  were 


144s 


MARIAN  GREY 


when  she  seemed  near  to  him,  almost  within  his  reach,  and 
such  a moment  was  the  one  when  Mrs.  Huntington  announced 
Ben  Butterworth,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  a long  time. 

Involuntarily  he  started  up,  half  expecting  his  visitor  had 
come  to  tell  him  something  of  her.  But  when  he  saw  the 
crape  upon  Ben’s  hat,  and  the  sorrow  on  his  face,  he  forgot 
Marian  in  his  anxiety  to  know  what  had  happened. 

“My  mother’s  dead,”  said  Ben,  and  the  strong  man,  six  feet 
high,  sobbed  like  a little  child,  bringing  back  to  Frederic’s 
mind  the  noiseless  room,  the  oddly-shaped  box,  the  still,  white 
face,  and  tolling  bell,  which  were  all  he  could  distinctly  re- 
member of  the  day  when  he,  too,  said  to  a boy  like  himself: 
“My  mother’s  dead.” 

Those  three  words.  Alas,  how  full  of  anguish  is  their  utter- 
ance, and  how  their  repetition  will  call  up  an  answering  throb 
in  the  heart  of  everyone  who  has  ever  said  in  bitterness  of 
grief : “My  mother’s  dead !” 

Frederic  felt  it  instantly,  and  it  prompted  him  to  take  again 
the  rough  hand,  which  he  pressed  warmly  in  token  of  his 
sympathy. 

“He  is  a good  man,”  thought  Ben,  wiping  his  tears  away; 
and  after  a few  choking  coughs  and  brief  explanations  as  to 
the  cause  and  time  of  her  death,  he  came  at  once  to  the  object 
of  his  visit. 

“He  should  peddle  now  just  as  he  used  to  do,  of  course,  but 
wimmen  wan’t  so  lucky,  and  all  Marian  could  do  was  to  teach. 
He  had  given  her  a tiptop  lamin’,  though  she  had  earnt  some 
on’t  herself  by  sewin’.  She  had  got  a paper  thing,  too,  with 
a blue  ribbin,  from  Miss  Harcourt,  who  praised  her  up  to  the 
skies!  In  short,  if  Mr.  Raymond  had  not  any  teacher  for 
Alice,  wouldn’t  he  take  Marian  Grey?”  and  Ben  twirled  his 
hat  nervously,  while  he  waited  for  the  answer. 

“I  wish  you  had  applied  to  me  sooner,”  said  Frederic,  “for 
in  that  case  I would  have  taken  her,  but  a Mrs.  Jones,  from 
Boston,  came  on  only  a week  ago,  so  you  see  I am  supplied. 
I am  very  sorry,  for  I feel  an  interest  in  Miss  Grey,  and  will 
use  my  influence  to  procure  her  a situation.” 

“Thank  you ; there’s  a place  she  can  have,  but  I wanted  her 
to  come  here,”  returned  Ben,  who  was  greatly  disappointed, 
and  began  to  cry  again.  _ : 

Frederic  was  somewhat  amused,  besides  being  considerably 
disturbed,  and  after  looking  at  the  child-man  for  a moment, 
he  continued : _ j 

“Mrs.  Jones  is  engaged  for  one  year  only,  and  if  at  the  end 


145 


MARIAN  GREY 


of  that  time  Miss  Grey  still  wishes  to  come,  I pledge  you  my 

word  that  she  shall  do  so.”  

This  brought  comfort  at  once.  One  year  was  not  very  long 
to  wait,  and  by  that  time  Marian  would  certainly  be  past 
recognition,  and  as  all  Ben’s  wishes  and  plans  centered  upon 
one  thing,  to  wit : Mr.  Raymond’s  falling  in  love  with  his  un- 
known wife,  he  was  readily  consoled,  and  wiping  his  eyes,  he 
said  apologetically,  as  it  were : “I’m  dreadful  tender-nearted, 

and  since  I’ve  been  an  orphan  it’s  ten  times  wuss.  So  you 
must  excuse  my  actin’  like  a baby.  Where  s Alice. 

Frederic  called  the  little  girl,  who,  child-like,  waited  to  put 
on  her  bracelet,  “so  as  to  show  the  man  that  she  still  wore  it 
and  liked  it  very  much.”  She  seemed  greatly  pleased  at  meet- 
ing Ben  again,  asking  him  why  he  had  not  been  there  before, 
and  if  he  had  received  her  picture.  . 

“Yes,  wee  one,”  said  he,  taking  her  round,  white  arm  in  his 
hand  and  touching  the  bracelet.  “I  should  of  writ,  only  tnat 
ain’t  in  my  line  much,  and  I don’t  always  spell  jest  right,  but 
we  got  the  picter,  and  Marian  was  so  pleased  she  cried. 

“What  made  her  ?”  asked  Alice  wonderingly.  She  don  t 

know  me.”  , , , „ -r,  , 

“But  she  knows  you’re  blind,  for  I told  her,  was  Ben  s 
quick  reply,  which  was  quite  satisfactory  to  Alice,  who  by  this 
time  had  detected  a note  of  sadness  in  his  voice,  and  she  asked 


what  was  the  matter.  < , , , „ , ,« 

To  her,  also,  Ben  replied : “My  mother  s dead,  and  the 

mature  little  girl  understood  at  once  the  dreary  loneliness  that 
mother’s  death  must  bring  even  to  the  heart  of  a big  man  like 
Ben.  Immediately,  too,  she  thought  of  Marian  Grey,  and 
asked:  “What  she  would  do?” 

“I  came  out  to  see  your  pa— no,  beg  your  pardon— to  see  it 
the  square  didn’t  want  her  to  hear  you  say  your  lessons,  was 
Ben’s  answer,  and  Alice  exclaimed:  “Oh,  Frederic,  let  hei 

come.  I know  I shall  like  her  better  than  Mrs.  Jones,  for 
she’s  young  and  pretty,  I am  sure.  May  she  come?” 

“Alice,”  said  Frederic,  “Mrs.  Jones  has  an  aged  mother  and 
two  little  children  dependent  upon  her  earnings,  and,  should 
I send  her  away,  the  disappointment  would  be  very  great. 
Next  year,  if  we  all  live,  Miss  Grey  shall  come,  and  with  this 
you  must  be  satisfied.” 

Alice  saw  at  once  that  he  was  right,  and  she  gave  up  the 
point,  merely  remarking  that  “a  year  was  a heap  of  a while.’ 
“No,  ’tain’t,”  said  Ben,  who  each  moment  was  becoming 
more  and  more  reconciled  to  the  arrangement. 

One  year’s  daily  intercourse  with  fashionable  people,  he 


146 


MARIAN  GREY 


thought,  would  be  of  invaluable  service  to  Marian,  and  as  he 
wished  her  to  be  perfect  both  in  looks  and  manners  when  he 
presented  her  to  Frederic  Raymond,  he  was  well  satisfied  to 
wait,  and  he  returned  to  New  York  with  a light,  hopeful 
heart.  Marian,  on  the  contrary,  was  slightly  disappointed, 
for,  like  Alice,  a year  seemed  to  her  a long,  long  time.  Still, 
there  was  no  alternative,  and  she  wrote  immediately  to  Mrs. 
Sheldon  that  she  would  come  as  early  as  the  first  day  of  Oc- 
tober. It  was  hard  to  break  up  their  old  home,  but  it  was 
necessary,  they  knew,  and  with  sad  hearts  they  disposed  of 
the  furniture,  gave  up  the  rooms,  and  then,  when  the  time 
appointed  came,  Marian  started  for  her  new  home,  accom- 
panied by  Ben,  who  went  rather  unwillingly. 

“We  ain’t  no  more  alike  than  ile  and  water,”  he  said,  when 
she  first  suggested  his  going,  “and  they  won’t  think  so  much 
of  you  for  seem’  me.” 

But  Marian  insisted,  and  Ben  went  with  her,  mentally  re- 
solving to  say  but  little,  as  by  this  means,  he  fancied,  “he 
would  be  less  likely  to  show  how  big  a dolt  he  was !” 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WILL  GORDON 

Mrs.  Sheldon’s  residence  was  a most  beautiful  spot,  re- 
minding1 Marian  a little  of  Redstone  Hall,  and  as  she  passed 
up  its  nicely  graveled  walk  and  stepped  upon  its  broad  piazza, 
she  felt  that  she  could  be  very  happy  there,  provided  she  met 
with  sympathizing  friends.  Any  doubts  she  might  have  had 
upon  this  subject  were  speedily  dispelled  by  the  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Sheldon,  in  whose  face  there  was  something  very 
familiar;  and  it  was  not  long  ere  Marian  identified  her  with 
the  lady  who  had  spoken  so  kindly  to  her  in  the  car  between 
Albany  and  New  York,  asking  her  what  was  the  matter,  and 
if  she  had  friends  in  the  city.  This  put  Marian  at  once  at  her 
ease,  and  her  admiration  for  her  employer  increased  each 
moment,  particularly  when  she  saw  how  gracious  she  was  to 
Ben,  who,  true  to  his  resolutions,  scarcely  spoke  except  to 
answer  Mrs.  Sheldon’s  question,  and  to  decline  her  invitation 

to  dinner.  . , . , 

“l  should  never  get  through  that  in  the  world  without  some 
blunder,”  he  thought,  and  as  the  dinner  bell  was  ringing,  he 
took  his  leave,  crying  like  a child  when  he  parted  with  Marian, 
who  was  scarcely  less  affected  than  himself. 

Going  to  the  depot,  he  sauntered  into  the  ladies’,  room, 
where  he  found  a group  of  young  girls,  who  were  waiting  the 
arrival  of  a friend,  and  who,  meantime,  were  ready  for  any 
fun  which  might  come  up.  Ben  instantly  attracted  their  atten- 
tion, and  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  party,  began 
to  quiz  him,  asking  “where  he  lived,  and  if  he  had  ever  been 
so  far  from  home  before?” 

Ben  understood  the  drift  of  her  remarks  at  once,  and  with 
imperturbable  gravity  replied: 

“I  come  from  Down  East,  where  they  raise  sich  as  me,  and 
this  is  the  fust  time  I was  ever  out  of  Tanton,  which  alius  was 
my  native  town !” 

Then,  taking  his  tobacco  box  from  his  pocket,  he  passed  it 
to  an  elegant-looking  man,  whom  he  readily  divined  to  be  the 
brother  of  the  girl,  saying  to  him:  „ 

“Have  a chaw,  captain?  I’d  jest  us  lief  you  would  as  not. 
Marian  Grey  147 


148 


MARIAN  GREY 


As  he  heard  the  loud  laugh  which  this  speech  called  forth, 
he  continued,  without  the  shadow  of  a smile : 

“I  had— ’strue’s  I live,  for  I ain’t  none  o’  your  tight  critters. 
Nobody  ever  said  that  of  Ben  Bur— Ben  Butterwith,”  he 
added  hastily,  for  until  Marian  was  discovered  to  Frederic, 
he  thought  it  best  to  retain  the  latter  name. 

“Ben  Butterworth,”  repeated  the  young  girl  aside  to 
her  brother.  “Why,  Will,  didn’t  Sister  Mary  tell  us  that  was 
the  adopted  brother  or  cousin  of  her  new  governess?  You 
know  Miss  Grey  mentioned  his  name  in  one  of  her  letters.” 
“Yes,  sir,”  said  Ben,  ere  Will  had  time  to  reply.  “If  by 
Mary  you  mean  Miss  Sheldon,  I’m  the  chap.  Brought  my 
sister  there  today,  to  be  her  schoolma’am,  and  I don’t  want 
you  to  run  over  her  neither,  ’cause  you’d  be  sorry  bimeby. 
That  was  all  gammon  I told  you  about  never  being  away  from 
home  before,  for  I’ve  seen  considerable  of  the  world.” 

The  cars  from  Boston  were  by  this  time  rolling  in  at  the 
depot,  and,  without  replying  to  Ben’s  remark,  the  young  lady 
went  out  to  look  for  her  friend. 

That  night,  just  after  dark,  Mrs.  Sheldon’s  door  bell  rang, 
and  her  brother  and  sister  came  in,  the  latter  dressed  in  the 
extreme  of  fashion,  and  bearing  about  her  an  air  which 
Seemed  to  indicate  that  she  had  long  been  accustomed  to  re- 
ceive the  homage  of  those  around  her.  Seating  herself  upon 
the  sofa,  she  began:  “Well,  Mary,  Will  and  I have  come  over 
to  see  this  wonderful  prodigy.  Mother  was  here,  you  know,' 
this  afternoon,  and  she  came  home  half  wild  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  Grey,  insisting  that  I should  call  directly,  and  so,  like  a 
dutiful  daughter,  I have  obeyed,  though  I must  confess  that 
the  sight  of  Ben  Butterworth,  whom  we  met  at  the  depot,  did 
not  greatly  prepossess  me  in  her  favor.” 

“They  are  not  at  all  alike,”  said  Mrs.  Sheldon,  “neither  are 
they  in  any  way  related.  Miss  Grey  is  highly  educated,  and, 
has  the  sweetest  face  I ever  saw.  She  has  some  secret  trouble, 
too,  I’m  sure,  and  she  reminds  me  of  a beautiful  picture  over 
which  a veil  is  thrown,  softening,  and  at  the  same  time  height- 
ening its  beauty.” 

“Really,”  said  Will,  rousing  up,  “some  romance  connected 
with  her.  Do  bring  her  out  at  once.” 

Mrs.  Sheldon  left  the  room,  and  going  up  to  Marians 
chamber,  knocked  at  the  door.  A low  voice  bade  her  come  in, 
and  she  entered  just  in  time  to  see  Marian  hide  away  the 
photograph  of  Frederic,  at  which  she  had  been  looking. 

“My  brother  and  sister  are  in  the  parlor  and  have  asked  for 
you,”  she  said. 


MARIAN  GREY 


149 


“I  will  come  down  in  a moment,"  returned  Marian,  who 
,vished  a little  time  to  dry  her  tears,  for  she  had  been  weeping 
>ver  the  pictures  of  Frederic  and  Alice,  both  of  which  were  in 
ler  possession. 

Accordingly,  when  Mrs.  Sheldon  was  gone,  she  bathed  her 
:ace  until  the  stains  had  disappeared;  then  smoothing  her 
:ollar  and  brushing  her  wavy  hair,  she  descended  to  the  par- 
or,  where  Ellen  Gordon  sat  prepared  to  criticize,  and  Wil- 
iam Gordon  sat  prepared  for  almost  anything,  though  not  for 
he  vision  which  greeted  his  view  when  Marian  Grey  appeared 
>efore  him. 

The  dazzling  purity  of  her  complexion  contrasted  well  with 
ler  black  dress,  and  the  natural  bloom  upon  her  cheek  was 
ncreased  by  her  embarrassment,  while  her  eyes  drooped  mod- 
stly  beneath  the  long-fringed  lashes,  which  Ellen  noticed  at 
mce,  because  they  were  the  one  coveted  beauty  which  had 
ieen  denied  to  herself. 

“Jupiter !"  was  Will's  mental  comment.  “Mary  didn't  ex- 
ggerate  in  the  least,  and  Nell  will  have  to  yield  the  palm  at 
>nce." 

Something  like  this  passed  through  Ellen's  mind,  but  though 
>n  the  whole  a frank,  right-minded  girl,  she  was  resolved 
ipon  finding  fault  with  the  stranger,  simply  because  her 
nother  and  sister  had  said  so  much  in  her  praise. 

“She  is  vulgar,  I know,"  she  thought,  and  she  watched 
arrowly  for  something  which  should  betray  her  low  birth, 
ut  she  waited  in  vain. 

Marian  was  perfectly  ladylike  in  her  manners ; her  language 
/as  well  chosen;  her  voice  soft  and  low;  and  ere  she  had  been 
nth  her  half  an  hour,  Ellen  secretly  acknowledged  her  superi- 
rity  to  most  of  the  young  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  and  she 
alf  regretted  that  she,  too,  had  not  been  educated  at  Mrs. 
larcourt’s  school,  if  such  manners  as  Miss  Grey’s  were  com- 
lon  there. 

At  Mrs.  Sheldon's  request,  Marian  took  her  seat  at  the 
iano,  and  then  Ellen  hoped  to  criticise;  but  here  again  she 
ras  at  fault,  for  Marian  was  a brilliant  performer,  keeping 
refect  time,  and  playing  with  the  most  exquisite  taste. 

As  she  was  turning  the  leaves  of  the  music  book  after  the 
lose  of  the  first  piece,  Will  said  to  his  sister: 

“By  the  wall,  Nell,  I had  a letter  from  Fred  today,  and  he 
lys  he  will  be  delighted  to  get  you  that  music  the  first  time 
e goes  to  the  city." 

Marian  started  just  as  she  had  done  that  afternoon  when 
[rs.  Sheldon  called  her  youngest  boy  Fred.  Still,  there  was 


150 


MARIAN  GREY 


no  reason  why  she  should  do  so.  Frederic  was  a common 
name,  and  she  kept  on  turning  the  leaves,  while  Ellen  replied: 
“What  else  did  he  write,  and  when  is  he  going  South?”  ^ 

Marian’s  hand  was  stayed  now,  and  she  listened  eagerly  for 
the  answer,  which  was  “Sometime  in  November,  and  he  has 
invited  me  to  go  with  him,  but  I hardly  think  I shall.  He’s 
lonesome,  he  says,  and  can  find  no  trace  of  his  runaway  wife. 
So,  there’s  the  shadow  of  a chance  for  you,  Nell.” 

The  hand,  which  held  the  leaf  suspended,  came  down  with 
a crash  upon  the  keys  of  the  piano,  but  Ellen  thought  it  was 
an  accident,  if  she  thought  of  it  at  all;  and  she  replied:  “Fie, 
Will,  just  as  though  I would  have  a man  before  I knew  for 
certain  that  his  wife  was  dead.  I admire  Mr.  Raymond  very 
much,  and  if  he  had  not  been  so  foolish  as  to  marry  that  child, 
I can’t  say  that  he  would  not  have  made  an  impression,  for  he 
is  the  finest-looking  and  most  agreeable  gentleman  I ever  met. 
Isn’t  it  strange  where  that  girl  went,  and  what  she  went  for? 
Hasn’t  he  ever  told  you  anything  that  would  tend  to  explain 
it  ?” 

Up  to  this  point  Marian  had  sat  immovable,  listening 
eagerly  and  wondering  where  these  people  had  known  Fred- 
eric Raymond.  Then,  as  something  far  back  in  the  past 
flashed  upon  her  mind,  she  turned,  and  looking  in  the  young 
man’s  face,  knew  who  he  was  and  that  they  had  met  before. 
His  name  had  seemed  familiar  from  the  first,  and  she  knew 
that  he  was  the  Will  Gordon  who  had  been  Frederic’s  chum 
in  college,  and  had  once  spent  a vacation  at  Redstone  Hall. 
He  had  predicted  that  she  would  be  a handsome  woman,  and 
Frederic  had  said  she  could  not  with  such  hair.  She  remem- 
bered it  all  distinctly,  but  any  effect  it  might  then  have  had 
upon  her  was  lost  in  her  anxiety  to  hear  the  answer  to  Ellen’s 
question.  . 

“Fred  generally  keeps  his  matters  to  himself,  but  I know  as 
much  as  this : He  didn’t  love  that  Miss  Lindsey  any  too  weli 
when  he  married  her,  but  he  has  admitted  to  me  since  that  his 
feelings  toward  her  had  undergone  a change,  and  he  would 
give  almost  anything  to  find  her.  He  is  certain  that  she  was 
with  him  when  he  was  sick  in  New  York,  and  since  that  time 
he  has  sought  for  her  everywhere.” 

William  Gordon  had  no  idea  of  the  effect  his  words  pro- 
duced upon  the  figure  which,  on  the  music  stool,  sat  as 
motionless  as  if  it  had  been  a block  of  marble.  During  all  the 
long,  dreary  years  of  her  exile  from  her  home,  there  had  not 
come  to  her  so  cheering  a ray  of  hope  as  this,  and  the  bright 
bloom  deepened  on  her  cheek,  while  the  joy  which  danced  in 


MARIAN  GREY 


151 


her  deep  blue  eyes  made  them  look  almost  black  beneath  the 
heavy  lashes.  Frederic  was  beginning  to  love  her — he  had  ac- 
knowledged as  much  to  Mr.  Gordon,  and  her  heart  bounded 
forward  to  the  time  when  she  should  see  him  face  to  face,  and 
hear  him  tell  her  so  with  his  own  lips.  Little  now  she  heeded 
Ellen’s  next  remark:  “I  presume  it  would  be  just  the  same 

even  if  he  were  to  find  her.  He  is  a great  admirer  of  beauty, 
and  she,  I believe,  was  very  ordinary  looking.” 

“Not  remarkably  so,”  returned  Will.  “She  was  thin-faced 
and  had  red  hair,  but  I remember  thinking  she  might  make  a 
handsome  woman — ” 

“With  red  hair ! Oh,  Will !”  and  the  black-tressed  Ellen 
laughed  at  the  very  idea. 

A sudden  movement  on  Marian’s  part  made  Will  recollect 
her,  and  he  hastened  to  apologize  for  his  apparent  forgetful- 
ness of  her  presence. 

“You  will  please  excuse  us,”  he  said,  “for  discussing  an 
affair  in  which  you,  of  course,  can  have  no  interest.” 

“Certainly,”  she  replied,  while  around  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  were  little  laughing  dimples,  which  told  no  tales  to  the 
young  man,  who  continued:  “Will  you  give  us  some  more 

music  ? I admire  your  style  of  playing.” 

Marian  was  in  a mood  for  anything,  and  turning  to  the 
piano  she  dashed  off  into  a merry,  spirited  thing,  to  which 
Will’s  feet  kept  time,  while  Ellen  looked  on  amazed  at  the 
white  fingers  which  flew  like  lightning  over  the  keys,  seem- 
ingly never  resting  for  an  instant  upon  any  one  of  them,  but 
lighting  here  and  there  with  a rapidity  she  had  never  before 
seen  equaled.  It  was  the  outpouring  of  Marian’s  heart,  and 
the  tune  she  played  was  a song  of  jubilee  for  the  glad  tidings 
she  had  heard.  Ere  she  had  half  finished,  Will  Gordon  was 
at  her  side,  gazing  wonderingly  into  her  face,  which  sparkled 
and  glowed  with  her  excitement. 

“She  is  strangely  beautiful,”  he  thought,  and  so  he  said  to 
Ellen  when  they  were  walking  home  together. 

“She  looks  very  well,”  returned  Ellen,  “but  I trust  you  will 
not  feel  it  your  duty  to  fall  in  love  with  her  on  that  account. 
Wouldn’t  it  be  ridiculous,  though,  for  you,  who  profess  never 
to  have  felt  the  least  affection  for  any  woman,  to  yield  at 
once  to  Mary’s  governess  ?” 

Will  Gordon  was  older  than  Frederic  Raymond,  and  an  ex- 
amination of  the  family  Bible  would  have  shown  him  to  be 
thirty.  Quite  a bachelor,  his  sister  Ellen  said,  and  she  mar- 
veled that  he  had  lived  thus  long  without  taking  to  himself  a 
wife.  But  Will  was  very  fastidious  in  his  ideas  of  females. 


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MARIAN  GREY 


and  though  he  had  traveled  much,  both  in  Europe  and  his  own 
country,  he  had  never  seen  a face  which  could  hold  his  fancy 
for  a moment,  until  the  sunny,  blue  eyes  of  Marian  Gray 
shone  upon  him  and  thawed  the  ice  which  had  laid  about  his 
heart  so  many  years.  Even  then  he  did  not  quite  understand 
the  feeling,  or  know  why  it  was  that  night  after  night  he 
found  himself  locked  out  at  home,  while  morning  after  morn- 
ing his  sister  Ellen  scolded  him  for  staying  out  so  late,  won- 
dering what  attraction  he  could  find  at  Mary’s  when  he  knew 
as  well  as  she  that  he  would  never  disgrace  the  Gordon  family 
by  marrying  a governess,  and  a peddler’s  adopted  sister,  too! 
Will  hardly  thought  he  should  either.  He  didn’t  quite  know 
what  ailed  him,  and  in  a letter  written  to  Frederic,  who  was 
now  in  Kentucky,  he  gave  an  analysis  of  his  feelings,  after 
having  first  told  him  that  Marian  Grey  was  the  adopted  sister 
of  a Yankee  peddler,  who  had  once  visited  Redstone  Hall,  and 
who,  he  was  sure,  Frederic  would  remember  for  his  oddities. 

“I  wish  you  could  see  this  girl,”  he  wrote;  “I’d  like  your 
opinion,  for  I know  you  are  a connoisseur  in  everything  per- 
taining to  female  charms,  but  I am  sure  you  never  in  all  your 
life  saw  anything  like  Marian  Grey.  I never  did,  and  I have 
seen  the  proudest  court  beauties  in  Europe — but  nobody  like 
her.  And  yet  it  is  not  so  much  the  exceeding  fairness  of  her 
complexion,  or  the  perfect  regularity  of  her  features,  as  it  is 
the  indescribably  fascinating  something  which  demands  your 
pity  as  well  as  your  admiration.  There  is  that  about  her 
mouth,  and  in  her  smile,  which  seems  to  say  that  she  has  suf- 
fered as  few  have  ever  done,  and  that  from  this  suffering  she 
has  risen  purified,  beautified,  and  if  I may  be  allowed  a term 
which  my  good  mother  would  call  wicked  in  the  extreme, 
glorified,  as  it  were ! 

“Just  picture  to  yourself  a graceful,  airy  figure,  five  feet 
four  inches  high — then  clothe  it  in  black,  and  adapt  every 
article  of  dress  exactly  to  her  form  and  style,  then  imagine 
a rosebud  face,  which  I cannot  describe,  with  the  deepest, 
saddest,  brightest,  merriest,  sunniest,  laughing  blue  eyes  you 
ever  saw.  You  see  there  is  a slight  contradiction  of  words, 
but  every  one  by  turns  will  apply  to  her  eyes  of  blue.  Then 
her  hair — oh,  Frederic,  words  fail  me  here.  It’s  a mixture  of 
everything — brown,  black,  yellow,  and  red.  Yes,  red — I mean 
it,  for  it  has  decidedly  a reddish  hue  in  the  sunshine.  By  gas- 
light it  is  brown,  and  by  daylight  a most  beautiful  chestnut  or 
auburn — rippling  all  over  her  head  in  glossy  waves,  and  curl- 
ing about  her  forehead  and  neck.” 

This  letter  reached  P'rederic  one  rainy  afternoon,  when  he 


MARIAN  GREY 


153 


had  nothing  to  do  but  to  read  it,  laugh  over  it,  reflect  upon 
and  answer  it.  Will  Gordon’s  description  of  Marian  Grey 
thrilled  him  with  a strange  feeling  of  pleasure,  imperceptibly 
sending  his  thoughts  after  another  Marian,  and  involuntarily 
he  said  aloud:  “If  she  had  been  like  this  picture  Will  has 

drawn,  I should  not  be  here  so  lonely  and  desolate.” 

Frederic  Raymond  was  prouder  far  than  Will  Gordon,  and 
his  feelings  at  first  rebelled  against  his  friend’s  taking  for  a 
bride  the  sister  of  unpolished,  uneducated  Ben.  “But  it  is  his 
owrn  matter,”  he  said;  “I  see  plainly  that  he  is  in  love,  so  I 
will  write  at  once  and  tell  him  what  is  the  'trouble.’  ” 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
will's  wooing 

The  silver  tea  set  and  damask  cloth  had  been  removed  from 
Mrs.  Gordon’s  supper  table.  The  heavy  curtains  of 
brocatelle  were  dropped  before  the  windows;  a cheerful  fire 
was  burning  in  the  grate,  for  Mrs.  Gordon  eschewed  both 
furnaces  and  stoves;  the  gas  burned  brightly  in  the  chande- 
liers, casting  a softened  light  throughout  the  room,  and  ren- 
dering more  distinct  the  gay  flowers  on  the  carpet.  The  lady- 
mother,  a fair  type  of  a thrifty  New  England  woman,  had 
donned"  her  spectacles,  and  from  a huge  pile  of  socks  was 
selecting  those  which  needed  a near  acquaintance  with  the 
needle,  and  lamenting  over  her  son’s  propensity  of  wearing 
out  his  toes ! 

The  son,  meantime,  half  lay,  half  sat  upon  the  sofa,  list- 
lessly drumming  with  his  fingers,  and  feeling  glad  that  Ellen 
was  not  there,  and  wondering  how  he  should  begin  to  tell  his 
mother  what  he  so  much  wished  her  to  know. 

“I  should  suppose  she  might  see  it,”  he  thought,  “might 
know  how  much  I am  in  love  with  Marian,  for  I used  to  be 
always  talking  about  her,  and  now  I never  mention  her,  it 
makes  my  heart  thump  so  if  I try  to  speak  her  name.  Nell 
will  make  a fuss,  perhaps,  for  she  thinks  so  much  of  family; 
but  Marian  is  family  enough  for  me.  Mary  likes  her,  and  I 
guess  mother  does.  I mean  to  ask  her.” 

“Mother?” 

“What,  William?”  and  the  good  lady  ran  her  hand  into  a 
sock  with  a shockingly  large  rent  in  the  heel. 

No  woman  can  be  very  gracious  with  such  an  opening 
prospect,  and,  as  Will  saw  the  scowl  on  his  mother’s 
face,  he  regretted  that  he  had  spoken  at  this  inauspicious 
moment. 

“I’ll  wait  till  she  finds  one  not  quite  so  dilapidated  as  that,” 
he  thought,  and  when  the  question  was  repeated,  “What,  Wil- 
liam?” he  replied,  “Is  Nell  coming  home  tonight?” 

“I  believe  so.  I wish  she  was  here  now  to  help  me,  for  I 
shall  never  get  these  mended.  What  makes  you  wear  out  your 
socks  so  fast  ?” 

“I  don’t  know,  I’m  sure,  unless  it’s  beating  time  to  Miss 
Marian  Grey  J55 


156 


MARIAN  GREY 


Grey’s  lively  music.  Don’t  she  play  like  the  mischief, 
though  ?” 

Mrs.  Gordon  did  not  answer,  and  Will  continued : 

'‘Mother,  how  would  you  like  to  have  me  marry  and  settle 
down?”  Will  continued,  after  a moment’s  silence,  and  his 
mother  replied: 

"Well  enough,  provided  I liked  your  wife.” 

"You  don’t  suppose  I’d  marry  one  you  didn’t  like,  I 
hope.” 

Taking  Frederic’s  letter  from  his  pocket  he  passed  it  to  his 
mother,  asking  her  to  read  it,  and  give  him  her  opinion  of  its 
contents. 

"You  know  I never  can  make  out  Mr.  Raymond’s  writing,” 
said  Mrs.  Gordon,  "so  pray  read  it  yourself.” 

But  this  Will  could  not  do,  and  he  insisted  until  his  mother 
took  the  letter  and  began  to  read. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Marian  ?”  she  asked,  giving  him  back 
the  letter,  but  not  resuming  her  work. 

"No,”  was  his  answer,  and  she  continued: 

"Then  I wouldn’t.” 

"Why  not?”  he  asked,  in  some  alarm;  and  with  a tremor  in 
her  voice,  his  mother  replied: 

"I’ve  nothing  against  Marian,  but  we  are  so  happy  together, 
and  it  would  kill  me  to  have  you  go  away.” . 

"You  charming  woman,”  cried  Will,  kissing  his  mother, 
whose  consent  he  understood  to  be  fully  won. 

He  knew  she  had  always  admired  Miss  Grey,  but  he  ex- 
pected more  opposition  than  this,  and  in  his  delight  he  would 
have  gone  to  see  Marian  at  once,  were  it  not  that  he  had  heard 
she  was  absent  that  evening.  For  an  hour  or  more  he  talked 
with  his  mother  of  his  plans,  and  when  at  last  Ellen  came  in 
she,  too,  was  let  into  the  secret.  Of  course,  she  rebelled  at 
first,  for  her  family  pride  was  very  strong,  and  the  peddler 
Ben  was  a serious  objection.  But  when  she  saw  how  earnest 
her  brother  was,  and  that  her  mother,  too,  had  espoused  his 
cause,  she  condescended  to  say: 

"I  suppose  you  might  do  worse,  though  folks  will  wonder 
at  your  taste  in  marrying  Mary’s  governess.” 

"Let  them  wonder,  then,”  said  Will.  "They  dare  not  slight 
my  wife,  you  know,”  and  then  he  drew  a pleasing  picture  of 
the  next  summer,  when  his  mother,  Marian,  Ellen,  and  he 
would  visit  the  White  Mountains  and  Montreal. 

"Why  not  go  to  Europe?”  suggested  Ellen.  "Mr.  Sheldon 
talks  of  going  in  August,  and  if  you  marry  this  <girl,  you  may 
as  well  go.  too.” 


MARIAN  GREY 


157 


“Well  spoken  for  yourself,  little  puss,”  returned  Will ; “but 
it’s  a grand  idea,  and  111  make  arrangements  with  Tom  as 
soon  as  I have  seen  Marian.” 

It  was  a long  night  to  Will,  and  the  next  day  longer  still, 
for  joyful  hope  and  harrowing  fears  tormented  his  mind,  and 
when  at  last  it  was  dark,  and  he  had  turned  his  face  toward 
Mr.  Sheldon's,  he  half  determined  to  go  back.  But  he  didn't, 
and  with  his  usual  easy,  off-hand  manner,  he  entered  his 
sister's  sitting  room.  Though  bound  to  secrecy,  Ellen  had  told 
the  news  to  Mrs.  Sheldon,  who,  of  course,  had  told  her  hus- 
band; and  soon  after  Will’s  arrival,  the  two  found  some  ex- 
:use  for  leaving  him  alone  with  Marian  Grey. 

Marian  like  William  Gordon  very  much — partly  because  he 
was  Frederic’s  friend,  and  partly  because  she  knew  him  to  be 
a most  affectionate  brother  and  dutiful  son — two  rare  quali- 
;ies  in  a traveled  and  fashionable  man. 

She  was  always  pleased  to  see  him,  and  she  welcomed  him 
low  as  usual,  without  observing  his  evident  embarrassment 
when  at  last  they  were  alone.  There  were  no  stockings  to  be 
iarned,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  commence,  until  he  re- 
nembered  Frederic's  letter.  It  had  helped  him  with  his 
nother — it  might  aid  him  now — and  after  fidgeting  a while 
n his  chair,  he  said: 

“I  heard  from  Mr.  Raymond  yesterday.” 

“Indeed!”  and  Marian's  voice  betrayed  more  interest  than 
he  word  would  indicate. 

“He  wrote  that  you  were  engaged  to  him — ” 

“I  engaged  to  Frederic  Raymond !”  And  Marian  started  so 
suddenly  that  she  pulled  her  needle  out  from  the  worsted  gar- 
nent  she  was  knitting. 

“Engaged  to  teach,  I mean,”  returned  Will.  “I'll  show 
/ou  what  he  wrote  when  you  pick  up  those  stitches.” 

“What  did  Mr.  Raymond  write  of  me?”  Marian  asked,  as  if 
Dnly  slightly  interested. 

“I'll  show  you  just  a little,”  and  Will  pointed  out  the  sen- 
:ence  commencing  with  “Give  my  respects  to  Miss  Grey,”  etc. 

The  sight  of  the  well-remembered  handwriting  affected 
Marian  sensibly;  but  when  she  came  to  the  last  part,  and  be- 
*an  to  understand  to  what  it  all  was  tending,  her  head  grew 
lizzy  and  her  brain  whirled  for  a moment.  Then  an  intense 
oity  for  Will  Gordon  filled  her  soul,  for  looking  upward  she 
net  the  glance  of  his  eyes,  and  saw  therein  how  much  she  was 
Deloved. 

“No,  no,  Mr.  Gordon!”  she  cried,  putting  her  hands  to  her 
jars  as  he  began  to  say : “Dear  Marian.”  “You  must  not  call 


158 


MARIAN  GREY 


me  so ; it  is  wicked  for  you  to  do  it — wicked  for  me  to  listen. 

I am  not  what  I seem.” 

Her  not  being  what  she  seemed,  he  fancied  might  refer  to 
something  connected  with  her  birth,  and  he  hastened  to  assure 
her  that  no  circumstance  whatever  could  change  his  feelings, 
or  prevent  him  from  wishing  her  to  be  his  wife. 

“Won’t  you,  Marian?”  he  said,  holding  her  in  his  arm  so 
she  could  not  escape.  “I  have  never  loved  before.  I always 
said  I could  not,  until  I saw  you;  and  then  everything  was 
changed.  I have  told  my  mother,  darling,  and  Ellen,  too. 
They  are  ready  to  receive  you,  if  you  will  go.  Look  at  me, 
and  say  you  will  come  to  my  home,  which  will  never  again  be 
so  bright  to  me  without  you.  Won’t  my  darling  answer  me? 
he  continued,  while  she  sobbed  so  violently  as  to  render  speak- 
ing impossible.  “I  am  sorry  if  my  words  distressed  you  so,” 
he  added,  resting  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  fondly 
smoothing  her  hair.  , , 

“I  am  distressed  for  you,”  Marian  at  last  found  voice  to  say. 
“Oh,  Mr.  Gordon,  I should  be  most  wretched  if  I thought  I 
had  encouraged  you  in  this ! But  I have  not,  I am  sure.  I 
like  you  very,  very  much,  but  I cannot  be  your  wife  r 

“Marian,  are  you  in  earnest?”  And  on  Will  Gordons 
manly  face  was  a look  never  seen  there  before. 

He  did  not  know  until  now  how  much  he  loved  the  beautnul 
young  girl  he  held  so  closely  to  his  side.  All  the  affections  of 
his  heart  had  centered  themselves,  as  it  were,  upon  her,  and 
he  could  not  give  her  up.  She  had  been  so  kind  to  him  had 
welcomed  him  ever  with  her  sweetest  smile— had  seemed  sorry 
at  his  departure— and  was  not  this  encouragement  ? He  had 
taken  it  as  such,  and  ere  she  could  reply  to  the  question : 

“Are  you  in  earnest?”  he  added:  . 

“I  have  thought,  from  your  manner,  that  I was  not  mail* 
ferent  to  you,  else  I had  never  told  you  of  my  love.  Oh, 
Marian,  if  you  desert  me  now,  I shall  wish  that  I could  die . 

Marian  struggled  until  she  released  herself  from  his  em- 
brace,  and,  standing  before  him,  she  replied:  . 

“I  never  dreamed  that  you  thought  of  me,  save  as  a ii  iend, 
and  if  I have  encouraged  you,  it  was  because  you  reminded 
me  of  another.  Oh,  Mr.  Gordon,  must  I tell  you  that  long  be- 
fore I came  here,  I had  learned  to  love  some  other  man— 
hopelessly,  it  is  true,  for  he  does  not  care  for  me ; but  that  can 
make  no  difference.  Had  I never  seen  him  never  known  o 
him— I might— I would  have  been  your  wife,  for  1 know  that 
you  are  noble  and  good ; but  'tis  too  late — too  late . 

He  did  not  need  to  ask  her  now  if  she  were  in  earnest;  tor, 


MARIAN  GREY 


159 


looking  up  into  her  truthful,  clear,  blue  eyes,  he  knew  there 
was  no  hope  for  him,  and  bowing  his  head  upon  the  arm  of 
the  sofa,  he  groaned  aloud,  while  the  heaving  of  his  chest 
showed  how  much  he  suffered,  and  how  manfully  he  strove  to 
keep  his  feelings  down.  Mournfully  Marian  gazed  upon  him, 
wishing  she  had  never  come  there,  if  by  coming  she  had 
brought  this  hour  of  anguish  to  him.  Half  timidly  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  head,  for  she  wished  to  comfort  him ; and, 
as  he  felt  the  touch  of  her  fingers,  he  started,  while  an  ex- 
pression of  joy  lighted  up  his  face,  only  to  pass  away  again 
as  he  saw  the  same  unloving  look  in  her  eyes. 

“If  I could  comfort  you/’  she  said,  “I  would  gladly  do  it; 
but  I cannot.  You  will  forget  me  in  time,  Mr.  Gordon,  and  be 
as  happy  as  you  were  before  you  knew  me.” 

He  shook  his  head  despairingly.  “No  one  could  forget  you; 
and  the  man  who  stands  between  us  must  be  a monster  not  to 
requite  your  love.  Who  is  he,  Marian,  or  is  it  not  for  me  to 
know  ?” 

“I  would  rather  you  should  not — it  can  do  no  good,  was 
Marian’s  reply;  and  then  Will  Gordon  pleaded  with  her  to 
think  again  ere  she  told  him  so  decidedly  no.  She  might  out- 
live that  other  love.  She  ought  to,  certainly,  if  ’twere  a hope- 
less one;  and  if  she  only  gave  him  half  a heart,  he  would  be 
content  until  he  won  the  whole.  They  would  go  to  Europe 
in  autumn;  and  beneath  the  sunny  skies  of  Italy  she  would 
learn  to  love  him,  he  knew.  “Won’t  you,  Marian?”  and  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice  there  was  a world  of  eager,  fearful, 
yearning  love. 

. “I  can’t — I can’t;  it  is  utterly  impossible!”  was  the  decided 
answer;  and,  without  another  word,  Will  Gordon  arose  and 
passed,  with  a breaking  heart,  from  the  room  he  had  entered 
so  full  of  hope  and  pleasing  anticipations. 

All  this  trouble  and  excitement  wore  upon  Marian,  and 
after  a time  she  became  too  ill  to  leave  her  room,  where  she 
kept  her  bed,  sometimes  fancying  it  all  a dream — sometimes  re- 
solving to  tell  the  people  who  she  was,  and  always  weeping 
over  the  grief  she  had  brought  to  William 'Gordon,  who,  dur- 
ing her  illness,  showed  how  noble  and  good  he  was  by  caring 
for  her  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had  indeed  been  his  promised 
bride. 

One  night,  toward  the  last  of  March,  as  he  sat  with  his 
mother  in  the  same  room  where  he  first  told  her  of  his  love 
for  Marian  Grey,  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a moment  after,  to 
his  great  surprise,  Frederic  Raymond  walked  into  the  room. 
William  had  forgotten  what  his  friend  had  said  about  the  pos- 


160 


MARIAN  GREY 


sibility  of  his  coming  North  earlier  than  usual,  and  he  was  so 
much  astonished  that  for  some  moments  he  did  not  appear  like 
himself. 

“You  know  I wrote  that  business  might  bring  me  to  Al- 
bany,” said  Frederic,  “and  that  if  I came  so  far  I should  visit 
you.” 

“Oh,  yes,  I remember  now,”  returned  William,  the  color 
mounting  to  his  forehead,  as  he  recalled  the  nature  of  the  last 
letter  written  to  Frederic,  who,  from  his  manner,  guessed  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  forbore  questioning  him  until  they 
retired  to  their  room  for  the  night. 

“Fred,”  said  William,  after  they  had  talked  a while  on  in- 
different subjects,  “Fred,”  and  Will’s  feet  went  up  into  a 
chair,  for  even  a man  who  has  been  refused  feels  better  with 
his  heels  a little  elevated,  “Fred,  it’s  all  over  with  me ; and  it 
makes  no  difference  now  whether  the  sun  rises  in  the  east  or 
in  the  west.” 

“I  suspected  as  much,”  returned  Frederic,  “from  your  fail- 
ure to  write  and  from  the  length  of  your  face.  What  is  the 
matter?  You  didn’t  coax  hard  enough,  I reckon,  and  I shall 
have  to  undertake  it  for  you.  How  would  you  like  that?  I 
dare  say  I should  be  more  successful,”  and  Frederic’s  smile 
was  much  like  the  Frederic  of  other  days,  when  he  and  Will 
were  college  friends  together. 

“I  said  everything  man  could  say,  but  the  chief  difficulty  is 
that  she  doesn’t  love  me,  and  does  love  another,”  returned 
Will,  at  the  same  time  repeating  to  his  companion  as  much  of 
his  experience  as  he  thought  proper.  f 

“A  discouraging  beginning,  I must  confess,  said  brederic, 
“but  perhaps  she  will  relent.”  . . , . , , 

“No,  she  won’t,”  returned  Will;  “she  is  just  as  decided 
now  as  she  was  that  night.  I have  exhausted  all  my  persua- 
sion,  mother  has  coaxed,  so  has  Mary,  so  has  Nell,  and  all  to 
no  purpose.  Marian  Grey  can  never  be  my  wife.  If  it  were 
not  for  this  other  love,  though,  I would  not  give  it  up. 

“Who  is  the  favored  one?”  Frederic  asked,  and  his  friend 

“Some  rascal,  I dare  say,  for  she  says  it  is  a hopeless  at- 
tachment on  her  part,  and  that  makes  it  all  the  worse.  Now, 
if  I knew  the  man  was  worthy  of  her,  I should  not  feel  so 
badly.  If  it  were  you,  for  instance,  or  somebody  like  you,  i d 
try  to  be  satisfied,  knowing  she  was  quite  as  well  off  as  she 
would  be  with  me,”  and  Will’s  feet  went  up  to  the  top  of  the 
chair  as  he  thought  how  magnanimous  he  would  be  were,  it 
Frederic  Raymond  who  was  beloved  by  Marian  Grey. 


MARIAN  GREY 


161 


“I  am  sorry  for  you,”  said  Frederic,  “sorry  that  you,  too, 
mist  walk  under  a cloud,  as  I am  doing.  We  little  thought, 
vhen  we  were  boys,  that  we  should  both  be  called  to  bear  a 
leavy  burden ; but  thus  has  it  proved.  Mine  came  sooner  than 
/ours,  and  it  seems  to  me  ’tis  the  harder  of  the  two  to 

)6“Fred,  you  don’t  know  what  you  are  saying.  Your  grief 
■annot  be  as  great  as  mine,  for  I love  Marian  Grey  as  man 
iever  loved  before ; and  when  she  told  me  ‘no,’  and  I knew  she 
neant  it,  I felt  as  if  she  were  tearing  out  my  very  heart- 
strings. You  acknowledge  that  you  never  loved  your  wife; 
)ut  you  married  her  for — I don’t  know  what  you  married  her 

[°“For  money !”  And  the  words  dropped  slowly  from  Fred- 
>ric’s  lips 

' “For  money?”  repeated  Will.  “She  had  no  money— this 
Marian  Lindsey.  She  was  a poor  orphan,  I always  thought. 
wVill  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?”■ 

“I  have  never  told  a living  being  why  I made  that  girl  my 
vife,”  said  Frederic;  “but  I can  trust  you,  I know,  and  I have 
sometimes  thought  I would  feel  better  if  someone  shared  my 
;ecret.  Still,  I would  rather  not  explain  to  you  how  Marian 
vas  the  heiress  of  Redstone  Hall,  for  that  concerns  the  dead; 
jut  heiress  she  was,  not  only  of  all  that,  but  of  all  the  lands 
md  houses  said  to  belong  to  the  Raymonds’  estate  m Ken- 
:ucky ; not  a cent  of  it  was  mine;  and,  rather  than  give  it  up, 
l married  her  without  one  particle  of  love — married  her,  too, 
vhen  she  did  not  know  of  her  fortune,  but  supposed  herself 
lependent  upon  me.”  . , 

“If  you  knew  that  she  was  dead,  would  you  marry  Isabel? 
isked  Will.  And  Frederic  replied: 

“Never !”  . 

Then,  in  a reverent  tone,  as  if  speaking  of  one  above  him  m 
Durity  and  innocence,  he  told  how  the  little  blind  girl  had 
stood  between  him  and  temptation,  holding  up  his  hands  when 
Fey  were  weakest,  and  keeping  his  feet  from  falling. 

“But  that  desire  is  over.  I can  look  Isabel  Huntington 
:almly  in  the  face,  and  experience  no  sensation,  save  that  of 
relief,  to  think  I have  escaped  her.  With  the  legacy  left  her 
Dy  Mr.  Rivers,  and  the  little  means  her  mother  had,  she 
nought  a small  house  near  Riverside ; so  I shall  have  them  for 
neighbors  every  summer.  But  I do  not  care.  I have  no  love 
now  for  Isabel.  It  all  died  out  when  I was  sick,  and  centered 
itself  upon  that  little  sweet-faced  girl,  who,  I know,  was 
Marian,  though  I cannot  find  her.  If  I could,  Will,  I’d  will- 


162  MARIAN  GREY 


ingly  part  with  every  cent  of  money  I call  min 
my  daily  bread.  Labor  would  not  seem  a 
knew  that  when  my  toil  was  done,  there  was 
waiting  for  me  at  home.” 


i,  and  work  for 
hardship,  if  I 
a darling  wife 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  BIRTHDAY 


Mrs.  Gordon’s  breakfast  bell  rang  several  times  next  morn- 
ing ere  the  young  men  made  their  appearance,  for,  as  a nat- 
ural consequence,  the  late  hours  of  the  previous  night  ha 
been  followed  by  protracted  slumbers.  As  they  were  making 
their  hasty  toilet,  Frederic  said  to  Wilh 

“This  is  Marian’s  twentieth  birthday.” 

“Is  it  possible!”  returned  Will.  “It  seems  but  yesterday 
since  I saw  her,  a little  girl  in  pantalets,  with  long  curls 
streaming  down  her  back.” 

When  breakfast  was  over,  the  young  men  started  for  a walk 
downtown,  going  by  Mrs.  Sheldon’s  house,  of  course,  al- 
though it  was  entirely  out  of  their  way;  but  neither  thought  ot 
this,  and  they  passed  it  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  so 
that  Will  could,  unobserved,  point  out  Marian  s room  to 
Frederic. 

“That’s  it,”  he  said,  “the  one  with  the  blinds  open.  There 
she  has  often  sat,  I suppose,  thinking  of  the  villain  who  stands 
between  me  and  happiness.  The  rascal ! I tell  you,  Fred,  i 
wish  I had  him  as  near  to  me  as  you  are !’  And  Will  Gordon 
fancied  how,  in  such  a case,  he  would  treat  a man  who  did 

not  love  Marian  Grey.  . 

Frederic  made  no  answer,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  intently 
upon  the  window,  hoping  to  catch  a glimpse  of  one  who  was 
fast  becoming  an  object  of  interest  even  to  him ; but  he  looked 
in  vain,  for  Marian  had  not  yet  arisen.  Pale,  weary,  and 
weak,  she  reclined  among  her  pillows,  her  fair  hair  falling 
about  her  face  in  beautiful  disorder,  and  her  eyes  turned  also 
toward  the  window — not  because  she  knew  that  Frederic  was 
looking  in  that  direction,  but  because  the  morning  sun  was 
shining  there,  and  she  was  watching  it  as  it  danced  upon  the 
curtain  of  bright  crimson.  t u , 

“I  have  seen  the  suns  of  twenty  years,  she  thought,  and 
I am  growing  old  so  fast.  I wonder  if  Frederic  would  know 

me  now?”  . , , • 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Sheldon  came  in,  and  advancing  to- 
ward the  window,  looked  down  into  the  street.  Catching  a 
view  of  her  brother  and  his  friend,  she  exclaimed : 

Marian  Grey  1 63 


164 


MARIAN  GREY 


"Frederic  Raymond!  I wonder  when  he  came?” 

"What ! — where — who  is  it  ?”  Marian  asked  quickly,  at  the 
same  time  raising  herself  upon  her  elbow,  and  looking  wist- 
fully in  the  direction  Frederic  had  gone. 

"Mr.  Raymond,  Will's  friend,  from  Kentucky,”  returned 
Mrs.  Sheldon.  "He  must  have  come  last  night,”  and  as  little 
Fred  just  then  called  to  her  from  without,  she  left  the  room. 

When  she  was  alone,  Marian  buried  her  face  in  the  bed- 
clothes, and  murmured: 

"Oh,  if  I could  only  see  him!  I long  so  to  test  his  powers 
of  recognition,  and  see  if  he  would  know  me.” 

She  almost  hoped  he  would,  and  so  claim  her  for  his  wife, 
as  this,  she  fancied,  might  cure  Will  Gordon  sooner  than 
aught  else  which  could  be  done.  She  was  sure  they  would  talk 
of  her,  for  Frederic  had  bidden  Will  propose,  and  he  would 
naturally  ask  the  result  of  that  proposal.  Will  would  say  she 
had  refused  him  because  she  loved  another,  and  would  not 
something  whisper  to  her  husband  that  "the  other”  was  him- 
self— that  Marian  Grey  was  his  Marian — the  Marian  of  Red- 
stone Hall — and  he  would  come  to  her  that  very  day,  perhaps, 
and  all  the  morning  she  waited  anxiously  for  a step  she  was 
certain  she  would  know,  though  it  might  not  be  as  elastic  and 
bounding  as  of  old,  ere  she  had  trammeled  it  with  a heavy 
weight.  She  listened  nervously  for  the  full,  rich  tones,  ask- 
ing for  her,  in  the  parlor  below.  But  she  listened  in  vain,  and 
the  restless  excitement  brought  on  a severe  headache,  which 
rendered  it  impossible  for  her  to  leave  the  room,  even  \f  he 
came.  This  Mrs.  Sheldon  greatly  lamented,  for  she  had  in- 
vited the  young  men  to  tea,  and  while  accepting  her  invitation, 
Will  had  asked  if  Miss  Grey  would  not  be  able  to  spend  a 
part  of  the  evening  with  them. 

"She  is  to  be  Fred’s  governess,  you  know,”  he  said,  "and 
he  naturally  wishes  to  make  her  acquaintance.” 

This  request  Mrs.  Sheldon  made  known  to  Marian,  who 
asked,  eagerly,  if  "tomorrow  would  not  do  as  well?” 

"It  might,”  returned  Mrs.  Sheldon,  "were  it  not  that  he 
leaves  on  the  early  train.” 

When  alone  again  with  Will,  in  the  chamber  of  the  latter, 
Frederic  broached  the  subject,  asking  his  companion  if  he 
thought  there  was  any  probability  of  Miss  Grey’s  disappoint- 
ing him. 

"I  mean  to  write  her  a note,”  he  said,  and  sitting  down  by 
Will’s  writing  desk  he  took  up  a sheet  of  gilt-edged  paper  and 
commenced,  "My  dear  Marian.” 

"Pshaw!”  he  exclaimed,  "what  am  I thinking  about?”  and 


MARIAN  GREY 


165 


tearing  up  the  sheet  he  threw  it  into  the  grate  and  commenced 
again  addressing  her  this  time  as  Miss  Grey. 

^He' considered  her  services  engaged  to  himself,  he  said,  an 
should  expect  her  at  Riverside  early  m September.  She  could 
come  sooner  if  she  liked,  for  Mrs.  Jones  was  to  leave  the  first 

“That S Europe  trip  may  tempt  her,”  he  thought  and  he 
added:  “I  am  glad  to  learn  from  Mrs.  Sheldon  that  you  are 

^ nroficient  in  German  and  French,  for  I have  serious 
thoughts  of  visiting  the  Old  World  myself  ere  long,  and  as 
Sffi  of  course,  will  go  with  me,  we  shall  prize  your  company 
all  the  more  on  account  of  these  acc9“Pll?<1^^®-  r h u try 

This  note  he  gave  to  Will,  who  said.  P.erhaP®  1 LyX 
ao-ain  and  if  I succeed,  I suppose  you  will  give  her up  to  me. 

&“Yes  ” answered  Frederic,  “I’ll  give  way  for  Will  Gordons 
wife,  but  for  no  one  else,”  and  there  the  conversation  ceased 
concerning  Marian  Grey;  nor  was  it  resumed  again,  for  early 
the  next  morning  he  started  for  New  York,  as  he  intended 
stopping  at  Riverside  ere  he  returned  to  Kentucky. 

True  to  his  trust,  Will  gave  the  note  to  Marian  the  first 
time  he  met  her,  after  she  was  well  enough  to  come  down- 

St^Tt  iTfrorn'kr.  Raymond,”  he  said,  and  Marian’s  face  was 
scarlet  as  she  took  it  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  eager, 
searching  glance,  to  see  if  he  knew  her  secret. 

But  he  did  not,  and  with  spirits  which  began  to  ebb,  she 
broke  the  seal  and  read  the  few  brief  lines,  half  smiling  as 
she  thought  how  very  formal  and  businesslike  they  w< ere.  But 
it  was  Frederic’s  handwriting,  and  when  sure  Will  did  not  see 

her  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  . , 

“What  you  do  that  for?”  asked  little  Fred,  whose  sharp 
eyes  saw  everything  not  intended  for  him  to  see. 

“Sh — sh,”  said  Marian;  but  the  child  persisted,  bay,  what 

you  tiss  that  letter  for  ?”  . , , , 

Will  Gordon  was  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  but  at  this 
strange  question,  he  turned  quickly  and  fastened  his  eyes  on 
Marian’s  face,  as  if  he  would  fathom  her  inmost  soul. 

“There’s  something  there,”  she  said,  passing  the  note  again 
over  her  lips  as  if  she  would  brush  the  “something  away. 

This  explanation  was  wholly  satisfactory  to  Fred,  who, 
with  childish  simplicity  asked:  “Did  you  get  it?”. 

But  Will  was  not  quite  certain,  and  for  several  days  he 
puzzled  his  brain  with  wondering  whether  Marian  Grey  really 
did  kiss  Frederic  Raymond’s  note  or  not.  If  so,  why  did  she. 

Very  rapidly  the  spring  passed  away,  enlivened  once  by  a 


16(5 


MARIAN  GREY 


.short  visit  from  Ben,  who,  having  purchased  an  entire  new 
suit  of  clothes  for  the  occasion,  looked  and  appeared  unusually 
well,  talking  but  little  until  he  was  alone  with  Marian,  when 
his  tongue  was  loosed,  and  he  told  her  all  he  had  to  tell. 

He  had  been  to  Riverside,  he  said,  and  Mrs.  Russell,  who 
was  still  there  and  was  to  be  the  future  housekeeper,  was  very 
gracious  to  him  on  account  of  his  being  the  adopted  brother 
of  their  next  governess,  Miss  Grey. 

“She  showed  me  your  chamber,”  said  he,  “and  it's  the  very 
one  they  fixed  up  so  nice  for  Isabel.  Nobody  has  ever  used 
it,  for  Miss  Jones  slep’  in  a little  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
Frederic  has  had  a door  cut  from  Alice’s  chamber  into  yourn, 
’cause  he  said  how’t  you  and  she  would  want  to  be  near  to 
each  other,  he  knew.  And  I tell  you  what,  when  you  git  there, 
it  seems  to  me  you’ll  be  as  nigh  heaven  as  you’ll  ever  git  in 
this  world.  Mrs.  Huntington  has  bought  a little  cottage  close 
by  Frederic’s,”  he  continued,  “and  she’s  livin’  there  with 
Isabel,  who  has  got  to  be  an  heir — ” 

“An  heiress!”  repeated  Marian.  “Whose,  pray?” 

“Don’t  know,”  returned  Ben,  “only  that  old  man  she  went  to 
Florida  with  is  dead,  and  he  willed  her  some.  I don’t  know 
how  much,  but  law,  she’ll  spend  it  in  no  time.” 

Once  Marian  thought  to  tell  him  of  William  Gordon’s  un- 
fortunate attachment,  particularly  as  he  was  loud  in  his 
praises  of  the  young  man ; but  upon  second  reflections  she  de- 
cided to  keep  that  matter  to  herself,  hoping  that  the  subject 
would  never  be  mentioned  to  her  again. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheldon  were  going  to  Europe.  They  would 
sail  in  about  two  weeks,  and  as  Marian  had  positively  declined 
to  accompany  them,  they  had  engaged  another  governess, 
who  was  to  meet  them  in  New  York.  It  was  decided  that 
Marian  should  remain  a few  days  with  Mrs.  Gordon,  and  then 
go  to  Riverside,  where  her  coming  was  anxiously  expected 
both  by  Frederic  and  Alice.  This  arrangement  was  highly 
satisfactory  to  Will,  who  anticipated  much  happiness  in  hav- 
ing her  wholly  to  himself  for  a week.  There  would  be  no 
Sister  Ellen,  with  curious,  prying  eyes,  for  she  was  going 
with  Mrs.  Sheldon  as  far  as  New  York — no  little  girl  always 
in  the  way — no  funny  Fred,  to  see  and  tell  everything — no- 
body, in  short,  but  his  good  mother,  whom  he  knew  would 
often  leave  him  alone  with  Marian. 

During  his  absence  from  home  he  had  thought  much  upon 
the  subject,  and  had  resolved  to  make  one  more  trial  at  least. 
She  might  be  eventually  won,  and  if  so,  he  should  care  but 
little  for  the  efforts  made  to  win  her.  With  this  upon  his 


MARIAN  GREY 


167 


mind  he  felt  rather  relieved  than  otherwise  when  the  family 
at  last  were  gone,  and  Marian  was  an  inmate  of  his  mother  s 
house  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheldon  had  urged  him  to  accom- 
nanv  them,  and  he  had  made  arrangements  to  do  so  in  case  he 
found  Marian  still  firm  in  her  refusal.  They  were  intending 
to  stop  for  a few  days  in  New  York,  and  he  could  easily  join 
them  the  day  on  which  the  boat  was  advertised  to  sail.  He 
should  know  his  fate  before  that  time,  he  thought,  and  he 
strove  in  various  ways  to  obtain  an  interview  with  Marian, 
who,  divining  his  intention,  was  unusually  reserved  in  her  de- 
meanor toward  him,  and  if  by  chance  she  found  herself  with 
him  alone,  she  invariably  framed  some  excuse  to  leave  the 
room,  so  that  Will  began  at  last  to  lose  all  hope,  and  to  think 
seriously  of  joining  his  sister  as  the  surest  means  of  for- 

gC“She  does  not  care  for  me,”  he  said  to  his  mother  one  night 
after  Marian  had  retired.  “I  believe  she  rather  dislikes  me 
than  otherwise.  I think  on  the  whole  I shall  go,  and  if  so,  I 
must  start  in  the  morning,  for  the  vessel  sails  tomorrow 

11  To  this  his  mother  made  no  objection,  for  though  she  would 
be  very  lonely  without  him,  she  was  accustomed  to  rely  upon 
herself,  so  she  rather  encouraged  him  than  otherwise,  thinking 
it  would  do  him  good.  Accordingly,  next  morning,  when 
Marian  came  down  to  breakfast,  she  was  surprised  to  hear  of 

Will’s  intended  departure.  . x , . . ,f  „„ 

Breakfast  being  over,  there  remained  to  Will  but  half  an 
hour,  and  as  a part  of  this  was  necessarily  spent  with  the  serv- 
ants, and  in  preparations  for  his  journey,  he  had  at  the  last 
but  a few  moments  in  which  to  say  his  farewell  words  to 
Marian.  She  was  in  the  back  parlor,  his  mother  said,  and 
there  he  found  her  weeping,  for  she  felt  that  her  friends  were 
leaving  her  one  by  one,  and  though  in  a few  days  she  was  go- 
ing back  to  her  husband  and  her  home,  she  knew  not.  what  the 
result  would  be.  Wilks  sudden  determination  to  visit  . Europe 
affected  her  unpleasantly,  for  she  felt  that  she  was  in  some 
way  connected  with  it,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a feeling  o 
loneliness  such  as  she  had  not  experienced  before  since  she 
first  came  to  Mrs.  Sheldon's. 

“Are  you  weeping  ?”  asked  Will,  when  he  saw  her  with  her 
head  bowed  down  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 

Marian  did  not  answer,  and  with  newly  awakened  hope 
Will  drew  nearer  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

“It  might  be  that  he  was  mistaken,  after  all,  he  thought. 
“Her  tears  would  seem  to  indicate  as  much.  Girls  were 


168 


MARIAN  GREY 


strange  beings,  everybody  said,”  and  passing  his  arm  around 
the  weeping  Marian,  he  whispered : “Do  you  like  me,  then 

“Yes,  very,  very  much,”  she  answered,  “and  now  that  you 
are  going  away,  and  I may  never  see  you  again,  I am  so  sorry 
I ever  caused  you  a moment's  pain.” 

I needn't  go,  Marian, ' William  said,  drawing  her  close  to 
him,  “I  will  stay,  oh,  so  gladly,  if  you  bid  me  do  so.  But  it 
must  be  for  you.  Shall  I,  Marian?  May  I stay?” 

And  again  Will  Gordon  poured  into  her  ears  deep,  burning 
words  of  love — entreating  her  to  be  his  wife — to  forget  that 
other  love  so  unworthy  of  her,  and  to  give  herself  to  him,  who 
would  cherish  her  so  tenderly.  Then  he  told  her  how  the 
thought  that  she  did  not  love  him  had  made  him  go  away, 
when  he  would  so  much  rather  remain  where  she  was,  if  he 
could  know  she  wished  it. 

“Answer  me,  Marian,”  he  said,  “for  time  hastens,  and  if 
you  tell  me  no,  I must  be  gone.  Never  man  loved  and  wor- 
shiped his  wife  as  I will  love  and  worship  you.  Speak,  and 
tell  me  yes.” 

Will  paused  for  her  reply,  and,  looking  into  her  face,  which 
she  had  turned  toward  him,  he  thought  he  read  a confirmation 
of  his  hopes ; but  the  first  words  she  uttered  wrung  his  heart 
with  cruel  disappointment. 

“I  cannot  be  your  wife,”  she  said.  “I  mean  it,  Mr.  Gordon 
— I cannot;  and,  oh,  it  would  be  wicked  not  to  tell  you.  Can 
I trust  you  ? Will  you  keep  my  secret  safe,  as  I have  kept  it 
almost  six  long  years  ?” 

There  was  some  inseparable  barrier  between  them,  and 
William  Gordon  felt  it,  as,  trembling  in  every  limb,  he  an- 
swered : 

“Whatever  you  intrust  to  me  shall  not  be  betrayed.” 

“Then  listen,”  she  said,  “and  say  if  you  will  bid  me  marry 
you.  I told  you  I was  not  what  I seemed,  and  I am  not. 
People,  perhaps,  call  me  young,  but  to  myself  I seem  old;  I 
have  suffered  so  much,  and  all  my  womanhood  has  been 
wasted,  as  it  were,  in  tears.  I told  you  once  that  before 
coming  here  I had  given  to  another  the  love  for  which  you 
sued,  and  I told  you  truly;  but,  Mr.  Gordon,  there  was  more 
to  tell;  that  other  one,  who  loves  me  not,  or  who,  if  he  does, 
has  never  manifested  it  to  me  by  word  or  deed,  is  my  own 
husband !” 

“Oh,  Marian,  Marian,  this  is  indeed  death  itself !”  groaned 
Will,  for,  though  she  had  said  there  was  no  hope,  it  seemed  to 
him  now  that  he  had  never  believed  or  realized  it,  as  when  he 
heard  the  dread fu1  words — “my  own  husband.” 


MARIAN  GREY 


169 


“Do  not  despise  me  for  deceiving  you,  Marian  continued. 
‘Tf  I had  thought  you  could  have  seen  aught  to  desire  in  me 
If  humble  eirl  I might,  perhaps,  have  warned  you  in 
SmTlhoS  JpwS  =oufd  I fell  you,  arranger,  that  I waa  an 

‘"“Where .'s hc-tbat  man?”  Will  asked,  for  he  could  not  say 
<vour  husband/'  and  his  lips  quivered  with  something  akin 
:o  the  pain  one  feels  when  he  hears  the  cold  earth  rattling  into 
he  p-rave  where  he  has  buried  his  fondest  pride.  - - 

'h  Marian’s  confession  was  a deathblow  to  all  Will  had -dared 
.o  ho  e,  and  he  asked  for  the  husband  more  as  a matter  of 
form  than  because  he  really  cared  to  know.  , ^ r 

“Mr.  Gordon,”  said  Marian,  rising  to  her  feet  and  standing 
with  her  face  turned  fully  toward  him,  “must  I tell  you  more. 

I thought  I needed  only  to  speak  of  a husband  and  you  would 
guess  the  rest.  Don’t  you  know  me?  Have  we  never  met 

be Wistfully,  anxiously,  William  gazed  at  her,  scanning  her 
features  one  by  one,  while  a dim  vision  oi  something  back  in 
the  past  floated  before  him,  but  assumed  no  tangible  form, 
and,  shaking  his  head,  he  answered: 

“Never  to  my  knowledge.”  ...  , n., 

“Look  again.  Is  not  my  face  a familiar  one.  Did  you 
never  see  ?t  before?  Not  here— not  in  New  England— but 
far  away,  where  the  summer  comes  earlier  and  the  winter  is 
not  so  long.  Is  there  not  something  about  me— something 
about  my  person,  or  my  voice,  which  carries  you  back  to  an 
old  house  on  the  river  where  you  once  met  a little  curly-haired 


S She  did  not  need  to  say  more.  Little  by  little  it  had  come 
to  him,  and,  starting  to  his  feet,  he  caught  her  hand,  exclaim- 

m “Great  Heaven ! The  lost  wife  of  Frederic  Raymond !”  ^ 
“Yes,”  she  answered,  “the  lost  Marian  of  Redstone  Mall, 
and  leaning  her  head  upon  his  arm,  she  burst  into  tears,  for 
he  seemed  to  her  like  a brother  now,  while  she  to  him— 

He  could  not  think  of  her  as  a sister  yet— he  loved  her  too 
well  for  that;  but  still  his  feelings  toward  her  had  changed  m 
the  great  shock  with  which  he  recognized  her.  # She  could 
never  be  his  Marian,  he  knew,  neither  did  he  desire  it.  And 
for  a moment  he  stood  speechless,  wholly  overwhelmed  with 
astonishment  and  wonder.  Then  he  said : ^ 

“Marian  Raymond,  why  are  you  here?” 

“Why!”  she  repeated  bitterly.  “You  may  well  ask  why. 
Hated  by  him  who  should  care  for  me,  what  could  I do  but 


170 


MARIAN  GREY 


go  away  into  the  unknown  world  and  throw  myself  upon  its 
charities,  which  in  my  case  have  not  been  cold  or  selfish. 
Heaven  bless  the  noble-hearted  Ben,  and  the  sainted  woman, 
his  mother,  who  didn’t  cast  me  off  when  I went  to  them, 
homeless,  friendless,  and  heartbroken.” 

In  her  excitement  Marian  clasped  her  hands  together,  and 
the  blue  of  her  eyes  grew  deeper,  darker,  as  she  paid  this 
tribute  of  gratitude  to  those  who  had  been  her  friends 
indeed.  Involuntarily,  Will  Gordon,  too,  responded  to  the 
words : 

“God  bless  the  noble-hearted  Ben,”  for,  looking  at  the  beau- 
tiful girl  before  him,  he  felt  that  what  she  was  she  owed  to 
the  self-denying,  unwearied  efforts  of  the  uncultivated  but 
generous  Ben. 

“Marian,”  he  said  again,  “you  must  go  home.  Go  to  your 
husband.  He  is  waiting  for  you.  He  has  sought  for  you 
long ; he  has  expiated  his  sin.  Go,  Marian,  go — ” 

“I  am  going,”  she  answered,  “and  if  I only  knew  he  wanted 
me — wanted  his  wife — ” 

“He  does  want  you,”  interrupted  Will.  “He  has  told  me  so 
many  a time.” 

Marian  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mrs.  Gordon  appeared, 
warning  her  son  that  the  carriage  was  at  the  door ; and  with  a 
hurried  farewell  to  Marian  and  his  mother,  Will  hastened  off, 
whispering  to  the  former: 

“I  shall  write  to  you  when  on  the  sea — ” 

“And  keep  my  secret  safe.  I would  rather  divulge  it  my- 
self,” she  added. 

He  nodded  in  the  affirmative,  and  was  soon  on  his  way  to 
the  depot,  so  bewildered  with  what  he  had  heard  that  he 
scarcely  knew  whether  it  were  reality  or  a dream.  Gradually, 
however,  it  became  clear  to  him,  and  he  remembered  many 
things  which  confirmed  the  strange  story  he  had  heard. 

Greatly  he  wished  to  write  to  Frederic  and  tell  him  that 
Marian  Grey  was  his  wife,  but  he  would  not  break  his  prom- 
ise, and  he  was  wondering  how  he  could  hasten  the  discovery, 
when,  as  the  cars  left  the  depot  at  Hartford,  a broad  hand 
was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  a voice  which  sounded 
familiar,  said: 

“Wall,  captain,  bein’  we’re  so  full,  I guess  you’ll  have  to 
make  room  for  me,  or  else  I’ll  have  to  set  with  that  gal  whose 
hoops  take  up  the  hull  concern.” 

“Ben  Butterworth !”  Will  exclaimed,  turning  his  face  to- 
ward the  speaker,  who  recognized  him  at  once. 

“Wall,”  he  began,  as  he  took  the  seat  Will  readily  shared 


MARIAN  GREY 


171 


/ith  him,  “I  didn’t  s’pose  ’twas  you.  How  do  you  do,  and 
ow’s  Marian?  Has  she  gone  to  Riverside  yet?  _ 

“No  ” returned  Will,  and  looking  Ben  directly  in  the  face, 

,e  continued:  “How  much  of  Miss  Grey’s  history  do  you 

"“Mor’n  I shall  tell  you,  I’ll  bet.  How  much  do  you  know?’’ 
tnd  Ben  set  his  hat  a little  more  on  one  side  of  his  head. 

“More  than  you  suppose,  perhaps,  returned  Will.  And 
f you,  too,  are  posted,  I’d  like  to  talk  the  matter  over;  but 

f not,’ I shall  betray  no  secrets.” 

“I  swan,  I b’lieve  you  do  know,  said  Ben.  Did  she  tell 
mu?”  . , 

Will  nodded,  and  Ben  continued:  ...  , 

••She  wrote  to  me  that  you  knew  Mr.  Raymond,  and  liked 
rim,  too;  I guess  he  ain’t  a very  bad  chap,  after  all,  is 

1CThe  ice  was  fairly  broken  now,  and  both  Will  and  Ben 
settled  themselves  for  a long  conversation.  Will  did  not  thi 
it  betrayed  Marian’s  confidence  to  talk  of  her  with  one  who 
understood  her  affairs  so  much  better  than  himself,  and,  ere 
they  reached  New  York,  he  had  heard  the  whole  story-heard 
how  Ben  had  stumbled  upon  her  in  New  York,  and  taken  her 
to  his  home  without  knowing  aught  of  her,  except  that  she 
was  friendless  and  alone — how  the  mother,  now  resting  in  he 
grave,  had  cared  for  the  orphan  girl,  and  how  Ben,  too,  had 

done  for  her  what  he  could.  . , . .. 

“’Twan’t  much,  anyway,”  he  said,  and  I never  minded , it 
an  atom,  for  ’twas  a pleasure  to  ’arn  money  lor  her  schoolin . 

And  Ben  spoke  truly,  for  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  denied  himself  as  few  men  would  have  done— toiling  early 
and  late,  through  sunshine  and  storm,  wearing  the  old  coat 
long  after  it  was  threadbare,  and  sometimes,  when  peddling, 
eating  but  two  meals  a day,  by  way  of  saving  for  Marian, 
all  this  he  did  not  speak  to  his  companion.  He  did  not  even 
think  of  it,  or,  if  he  did,  he  felt  that  he  was  more  than  paid 
in  seeing  Marian  what  she  was.  Accidentally,  he  said  that  his 
name  was  really  Ben  Burt,  and  that  he  should  be  glad  when 
the  time  came  for  him  to  be  called  thus  again. 

“When  will  that  be?”  asked  Will,  and  Ben  replied  by  un- 
folding to  him  his  long-cherished  plan  of  having  Frederic 

make  love  to  his  own  wife.  t ^ , , 

“You  might  write  to  him,  I s’pose,  he  said,  but  that  would 
spile  all  my  fun,  and  I’d  rather  let  the  thing  work  itself  out. 
He's  bound  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  He  can  t help  it,  and  1 
don't  see  how  you  could.  Mabby  you  did,  and  Ben  s gray 


172 


MARIAN  GREY 


eyes  looked  quizzically  at  his  companion,  who  colored  deeply 
as  he  replied  merely  to  the  first  part  of  Ben’s  remark. 

“I  certainly  will  not  interfere  in  the  matter,  though  before 
meeting  you  I was  wondering  how  I could  do  so,  and  not  be- 
tray Marian’s  confidence.  I am  sure  now  it  will  all  come  right 
at  last,  and  you  ought  to  be  permitted  to  bring  it  around  in 
your  own  way,  for  you  have  been  a true  friend  to  her,  and  I 
dare  say  she  loves  you  as  a brother.” 

# This  was  touching  Ben  on  a tender  spot,  for  his  old  affec- 
tion for  Marian  was  not  quite  dead  yet,  and  Will’s  last  words 
brought  back  to  him  memories  of  those  dreary  winter  nights, 
when  in  his  way  he  had  battled  with  the  love  he  knew  he 
must  not  cherish  for  Marian  Grey.  He  fidgeted  in  his  seat, 
got  up  and  looked  under  him,  sat  down  again,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  and  repeated  to  himself  a part  of  the  multipli- 
cation table  by  way  of  keeping  from  crying. 

“Bless  her,  she’s  an  angel,”  he  managed  at  last  to  say,  add- 
ing, as  he  met  the  inquiring  glance  of  Will:  “It’s  my  mis- 

fortin’  to  be  oncommon  tender-hearted,  and  when  I git  to 
thinkin’  of  somethin’  that  concerns  nobody  but  me,  I can’t  keep 
from  cryin’  no  way  you  can  fix  it,”  and  two  undeniable  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks  and  dropped  from  the  end  of  his  nose. 

“He,  too,”  sighed  Will  Gordon,  and  as  he  thought  how 
much  more  the  uncouth  man  beside  him  had  done  for  Marian 
Grey  than  either  Frederic  or  himself,  and  that  he  really  had 
the  greatest  claim  to  her  gratitude  and  love,  his  heart  warmed 
toward  Yankee  Ben  as  to  a long-tried  friend,  and  he  resolved 
to  leave  for  him  a substantial  token  of  his  regard. 

“Why  don’t  you  settle  down  as  a grocer  in  some  small 
country  town  ?”  he  asked  as  they  came  near  the  city. 

% “I  have  thought  of  that,”  said  Ben,  “for  I’m  gettin’  kinder 
tired  travelin’  now  that  their  ain’t  no  home  for  me  to  go  once 
in  so  often.  I think  I should  like  to  be  a groceryman  first  < 
rate,  and  weigh  out  saleratus  and  bar  soap  to  the  old  women. 
Wouldn’t  they  flock  in,  though,  to  see  me,  I’m  so  odd ! But 
’tain’t  no  use  to  think  on’t,  for  I hain’t  the  money  now,  though 
mabby  I shall  have  it  bimeby.  My  expenses  ain’t  as  great  as 
they  was.” 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  depot,  and  Will,  who 
knew  they  must  part  there,  said  to  him  : 

“How  long  do  you  stay  in  New  York?” 

“Not  long,”  returned  Ben.  “I’ve  only  come  to  recruit  my 
stock  a little.” 

“Go  to  the  post  office  before  you  leave,”  was  Will’s  reply, 
as  he  stepped  from  the  platform  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


MARIAN  GREY 


173 


“What  did  he  mean?”  thought  Ben.  “Nobody  writes  to 
tie  but  Marian,  and  I ain’t  expectin’  nothin’  from  her,  but  I 

^Accordingly,  the  next  night,  when  Will  Gordon,  with  little 
"red  in  his  arms,  was  looking  out  upon  the  sea,  Ben  wended 
jiis  way  to  the  office,  inquiring  first  for  Ben  Butterworth  and 
hen  for  Ben  Burt.  There  was  a letter  for  the  latter,  and  it 
:ontained  a draft  for  three  hundred  dollars,  together  with  the 
'ollowing  lines: 

“You  and  I have  suffered  alike,  and  in  each  of  our  hearts 
here  is  a hidden  grave.  I saw  it  in  the  tears  you  shed  when 
alking  to  me  of  Marian  Grey.  Heaven  bless  you,  Ben  Burt, 
:or  all  you  have  been  to  her.  She  is  one  of  the  fairest,  best 
)f  God’s  creation,  but  she  was  not  meant  for  you  nor  me;  and 
ve  must  learn  to  go  our  way  without  her.  You  have  done 
[or  her  more,  perhaps,  than  either  Mr.  Raymond  or  myself 
vould  have  done  in  the  same  circumstances,  and  thus  far  you 
ire  more  worthy  of  her  esteem.  You  will  please  accept  the 
nclosed  as  a token  that  I appreciate  your  self-denying  labors 
For  Marian  Grey.  Use  it  for  that  grocery  we  talked  about,  it 
you  choose,  or  for  any  purpose  you  like..  If  you  have  any 
ielicacv  just  consider  it  a loan  to  be  paid  .when  you  are  a 
richer  man  than  I am.  You  cannot  return  it,  of  course,  tor 
when  you  receive  it  I shall  be  gone. 

“Yours,  in  haste, 

“William  Gordon. 


This  letter  was  a mystery  to  Ben,  who  read  it  again  and 
again,  dwelling  long  upon  the  words,  “You  and  I have  suf- 
fered alike,  and  in  each  of  our  hearts  there  is  a hidden  grave. 

“That  hits  me  exactly,”  he  said,  “though  I never  thought 
iof  callin’  that  hole  in  my  heart,  a grave  but  tain  t nothin 
else,  for  I buried  somethin’  in  it,  and  the  tender,  brotherly 
feelin’  I’ve  felt  for  Marian  ever  since  was  the  gravestun  I 
set  up  in  memory  of  what  had  been.  But  what  does  he  know 
about  it,  though  why  shouldn’t  he,  for  no  mortal  man  can  look 
in  Marian’s  face  and  not  feel  kinder  cold  and  hystericky-like 
at  the  pit  of  his  stomach!  Yes,  he’s  in  love  with  her,  and 
that’s  the  way  she  came  to  tell  who  she  was.  Poor  Bill ! Poor 
Bill ! I know  how  to  pity  him  to  a dot,”  and  Ben  heaved  a 
deep  sigh  as  he  finished  this  long  soliloquy. 

The  money  next  diverted  his  attention,  but  no  puzzling  on 
his  part  could  explain  to  him  satisfactorily  why  it  had  been 
; sent. 


MARIAN  GREY 


174 


“S'posin'  he  was  grateful/'  he  said,  “he  needn't  give  me 
three  hundred  dollars  for  nothin',  but,  bein'  he  has,  I may  as 
well  use  it  to  start  in  business,  though  I shall  pay  it  back,  of 
course,"  and  when  alone  in  his  room  at  the  hotel  where  he 
stopped,  he  wrote  upon  a bit  of  paper : 

“New  York,  August  30,  18 — . 

“For  vally  rec.  I promise  to  pay  Bill  Gordon,  or  bearer,  the 
sum  of  three  hundred  dollars  with  use  from  date. 

“Benjamin  Burt." 

This  note  he  put  carefully  away  in  his  old  leathern  wallet, 
where  it  was  as  safe  and  as  sure  of  being  paid  as  if  it  had 
been  in  William  Gordon's  hands  instead  of  his. 

Meantime  Marian  at  Mrs.  Gordon's  was  half  regretting  that 
she  had  told  her  secret  to  William,  and  greatly  lamenting  that 
they  had  been  interrupted  ere  she  knew  just  how  much  Fred- 
eric wished  to  find  her.  That  his  feelings  toward  her  had 
changed,  of  course,  she  was  sure,  but  she  would  know  by 
word  and  deed  that  he  loved  her  ere  she  revealed  herself  to 
him,  and  the  dark  mystery  of  that  cruel  letter  must  be  ex- 
plained before  she  could  respect  him  as  she  had  once  done. 
And  now  but  a few  days  remained  ere  she  should  see  him  face 
to  face,  for  she  was  going  to  Riverside  very  soon.  Some  ac- 
quaintances of  hers  were  going  West  by  way  of  New  York, 
and  she  decided  to  accompany  them,  though  by  so  doing  she 
would  reach  Riverside  one  day  earlier  than  she  was  expected. 

“It  would  make  no  difference,  of  course,"  she  said,  and  she 
waited  impatiently  for  the  appointed  morning. 

It  came  at  last,  and  long  before  the  hour  of  starting  she 
was  ready,  the  dancing  joy  in  her  eyes,  and  her  apparent 
eagerness  to  go  being  sadly  at  variance  with  the  expression 
of  Mrs.  Gordon's  face,  for  the  good  lady  loved  the  gentle  girl 
and  grieved  to  part  with  her. 

“I  am  sorry  to  leave  you,"  Marian  said  when  the  last 
moment  came,  “but  I am  so  glad  I am  going,  too;  sometime, 
perhaps,  you  may  know  why,  and  then  you  will  not  blame  me." 

She  could  not  shed  a tear,  although  she  had  become 
greatly  attached  to  her  Springfield  home,  and  her  excitement 
continued  unabated  until  she  reached  New  York,  where  they 
stopped  for  the  night.  There  were  several  hours  of  daylight, 
and,  stealing  away  from  her  friends  she  took  a Third  Avenue 
car  and  went  up  to  their  old  house  where  strangers  were 
living  now.  She  did  not  care  to  go  in,  for  the  dingy,  uncur- 
tained windows  looked  far  from  inviting,  and  she  passed 


MARIAN  GREY 


175 


Mowlv  downlhTother  side  of  the  street,  musing  upon  all  that 
had  passed  since  the  night  when  she  first  climbed  those  nar- 
row stairs,  and  asked  a mother’s  care  from  Mrs.  Burt.  She 
did  not  think  then  that  she  would  ever  be  as  happy  as  she 
was  today,  with  the  uncertainty  of  meeting  Frederic  to- 
morrow yit  seemed  a great  while  to  wait,  and  as  Ben  had 
once  numbered  the  weeks  in  seven  years,  so  she  n0^  “unt^ 
the  hours  which  must  elapse  ere  she  felt  the  pressure  or 
Frederic’s  hand — for  he  would  shake  hands  with  her,  o 
course  and  he  would  look  into  her  face  for  he  had  heard 
much  of  her  both  from  Will  Gordon  and  Ben.  Would  he  be 
disappointed?  Would  he  think  her  pretty?  Would  he  know 
her?PPAnd  Alice— what  would  she  say?  Marian  dreaded  this 
test’ more  than  all  the  rest,  for  she  felt  that  there  was  danger 
in  t^  instinct  of  the  blind  girl.  Slowly  she  retraced  her 
steps  anf  returning  to  the  Hotel  Astor,  sought  her  own  room, 
infornhng  her  friends  that  she  was  weary  and  would  rest 
‘“Five  hours  more,”  was  her  first  thought  when  she  awoke 
next  morning  from  a sounder  sleep  than  she  had  supposed  it 
possible  to  enjoy  when  under  such  excitement.  Ere  long 
was  four  hours  more,  then  three  then  two’  then  “j  M^  hke5 
the  cars  stopped  at  the  depot  at  Yonkers.  Two  trunks  marked 
“M.  G.”  stood  upon  the  platform,  and  near  them  a figure  in 
black  bowing  to  her  friends  who  leaned  from  the  car  window, 
and  holding  in  her  hands  a satchel,  a silk  umbrella,  two 
checks,  hergpurse,  and  a book,  for  Marian  possessed  the  weak- 
ness  of  her  sex,  and  in  traveling  always  carried  the  usua 

a™°ToR°itebra|£”eshe  said,  when  asked  where  she  wished  to 
go,  and  she  looked  about  as  if  half  expecting  to  see  a familiar 

^But  she  looked  in  vain,  and  in  a few  moments  slie  ®“  “™' 
fortably  seated  in  the  lumbering  stage  which  once  before  had 
carried  her  up  that  long  hill.  Eagerly  she  strained  her  eyes 
to  catch  the  first  view  of  the  house ; and  when  at  last  it  came 
in  sight  she  was  too  intent  upon  it  to  observe  the  showily- 
dressed  young  lady  tripping  along  upon  the  w^k,  and  holding 
her  skirts  with  her  thumb  and  finger  so  as  to  show  her  dainty 

SllBuT  if  Marian  did  not  see  Isabel,  Isabel  saw  her  It  was 
not  usual  for  the  stage  to  come  up  at  that  hour  of  the  ay. 
and  as  it  passed  her  by  Isabel  turned  to  see  where  it  was  go. 

“To  Riverside,”  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  it  draw  up  to  the 
gate.  “It  must  be  the  new  governess/’  and  as  there  was  no 


176 


MARIAN  GREY 


house  very  near,  she  stopped  to  inspect  the  stranger  as  well  as 
she  could  at  that  distance.  “Black,”  she  said,  as  Marian 
stepped  upon  the  ground;  “but  I might  have  known  it,  for 
regular  built  teachers  always  wear  black,  I believe.  She  is 
rather  tall,  too.  An  umbrella,  of  course.  I wonder  she  hasn’t 
her  blanket  shawl  and  overshoes  this  hot  day.  Her  bonnet  is 
Pretty,  and  that  hem  in  her  veil  very  wide.  On  the  whole 
she’s  quite  genteel  for  a governess,”  and  Isabel  walked  on 
while  Marian  went  up  the  graveled  walk,  expecting  at  each 
step  to  meet  with  either  Frederic  or  Alice. 

UP  t0  the  door  she  resolutely  pulled  the  silver  knob. 
1 he  loud  sharp  ring  made  her  heart  beat  violently,  and  when 
she  heard  a heavy  tread,  not  unlike  a man’s,  coming  up  the 
basement  stairs,  she  thought : “What  if  it  is  Frederic  him- 
self? What  shall  I say?” 

“It  is  Frederic,”  she  continued,  as  the  step  came  nearer,  and 
she  was  wishing  she  could  run  away  and  hide  when  the  door 
was  opened  by  Mrs.  Russell,  her  feet  encased  in  a pair  of  Mr. 
Raymond’s  cast-off  shoes,  which  accounted  for  her  heavy 
tread,  and  herself  looking  a little  crestfallen  at  the  sight  of 
her  visitor,  whom  she  recognized  at  once. 

<^*ss  Grey,  I b’lieve  ?”  she  said,  dropping  a low  courtesy. 
We  wan’t  expecting  you  till  tomorrow;  but  walk  in  and 
make  yourself  at  home.  You  11  want  to  go  to  your  room,  I 
s’pose.  , Traveled  all  night,  didn’t  you?  You  look  pale,  and  I 
wouldnt  wonder  if  you  wanted  to  sleep  most  of  the  day.  I 
never  thought  of  such  a thing  as  your  cornin’  this  mornin’. 
Dear  me!  what  shall  I do?” 

This  was  said  in  an  undertone,  but  it  caught  the  ear  of 
Marian,  who,  now  that  she  had  a chance  to  speak,  asked  for 
Mr.  Raymond  timidly,  as  if  fearful  that  with  his  name  her 
secret  might  slip  out. 

“Bless  you !”  returned  Mrs.  Russell,  “both  of  ’em  went  to 
New  York  early  this  morning,  and  won’t  be  home  till  dark, 
maybe,  and  that  s why  I feel  so.  I don’t  know  how  to  enter- 
tain  you  as  they  do;  and  Miss  Alice  has  been  reckoning  on 
giving  you  a good  impression.  I’m  so  sorry  you’ve — they’ve 
gone,  I mean.  I wa’n’t  expecting  to  get  any  dinner  today,  and 
was  havin’  such  a nice  time  sewin’  on  my  dress”;  and,  with 
the  last,  the  whole  cause  of  the  old  lady’s  uneasiness  was  di- 
vulged. 

In  the  absence  of  Frederic  and  Alice,  she  had  counted  upon 
a day  of  leisure,  which  Marian’s  arrival  had  seriously  inter- 
rupted. 

“I  beg  you  not  to  trouble  yourself  for  me,”  said  Marian, 


MARIAM  GREY 


177 


,vho  readily  understood  the  matter.  “I  never  care  for  a regu- 
ar dinner— indeed  I may  not  be  hungry  at  all. 

The  old  lady’s  face  brightened  perceptibly,  and  she  replied . 

“Oh  I don’t  mind  a cup  of  tea  and  the  like  o that,  but 
o brile  or  stew  this  hot  day  ain’t  so  pleasant  when  a person 
s fleshy  as  I am.  I’ll  get  you  something,  though;  and  now 
you  go  upstairs  to  your  room,  the  one  at  the  right  hand,  wit 
he  white  furniture  and  the  silver  jigger  that  lets  the  water 
into  the  marble  dish.  We  live  in  style,  I tell  you;  and  Mr. 
Raymond  is  a gentleman,  if  there  ever  was  one- only  he 
wants  meat  three  times  a day,  just  as  he  has  in  Kentucky. 
Thinks,  I s’pose,  it  don’t  hurt  me  any  more  to  sweat  over  the 
fire  than  it  does  that  Dinah  Alice  talks  so  much  about.  Yes, 
that’s  the  door — right  there.” 


....  _ ■ .-  U&k.-Jj&u  A,.  -•  — 


CHAPTER  XX 

FREDERIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIAN’S  OLD  HOME 

“Frederic  ” said  Alice,  about  six  weeks  before  Marian’s  ar- 
rival  5Tversid«,  “who  hired  that  Mr,  Merton  to  take  care 
of  you  when  you  were  sick  at  the  hotel!' 

“The  proprietor,  I suppose,  returned  Frederic. 

Alice  continued : 

“Fdo^know/^sSd0  Frederic.  “She  was  from  the  country, 

1 “YeTVes”  returned  Alice;  “but  some  person  must  have 
recommended  her,  and  if  you  can  ascertain  who  that  person 
was,  you  may  find  Mrs.  Merton,  and  learn  something  of 

“wonder  I never  thought  of  that  before  ” said  Frederic 
adding,  that  if  Alice  had  her  sight  he  believed  she  would  ha\e 

discovered  Marian  ere  this.  little 

“I  know  I should,”  was  her  answer;  and  after  a little 

further  conversation  it  was  decided  that  Frederic  should  g 
to  New  York  and  learn,  if  possible,  who  first  suggested  M . 

MeThisnwSasnnroteso  easy  a matter  as  he  had  imagined  it  to  be 
for  though  Frederic  himself  was  well  remembered  at  the 
hotel,  where  he  was  now  a frequent  guest,  scarcely  anyone 
could  recall  Mrs.  Merton  distinctly,  and  no  one  seemed  to 
know  how  she  came  there,  until  a servant,  who  had  been  in  the 
house  a long  time,  spoke  of  Martha  Gibbs,  and  then  the  pro- 
prietor suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  recommended  1 rs. 

Merton  as  being  a friend  of  hers.  . 

“But  who  is  Martha  Gibbs,  and  where  is  she  now . 
eric  asked ; and  the  servants  replied  that : . „ . , 

“Her  home  used  to  be  in  Woodstock,  Connecticut  , and 
with  this  item  of  information  Frederic  wrote  to  her  friends, 

inquiring  where  she  was.  . , 

To  this  letter  there  came  ere  long  an  answer,  saying  that 
Mrs.  John  Jennings  lived  in  , a small  town  m the  in- 

terior of  Iowa.  Accordingly,  the  next  mail  westward  from 
Yonkers  carried  a letter  to  said  Mrs.  Jennings,  asking  where 

Marian  Grey  179 


180 


MARIAN  GREY 


the  woman  lived  who  had  nursed  Mr.  Raymond  through  that 
dangerous  fever.  This  being  done,  Frederic  and  Alice  waited 
impatiently  for  a reply,  which  was  long  in  coming,  for  Mr. 
Jennings'  log  tenement  was  several  miles  from  the  post  office, 
where  he  seldom  called,  and  it  was  more  than  a week  ere  the 
letter  reached  him.  Even  then  it  found  him  so  engrossed  in 
the  arrival  of  his  first-born  son  and  heir,  that  for  two  or  three 
days  longer  it  lay  unopened  in  the  clock-case,  ere  he  thought 
to  look  at  it. 

“I  don’t  know  what  it  means,  I’m  sure,”  he  said,  taking  it 
to  his  wife,  who,  having  never  heard  of  the  death  of  her  old 
friend,  replied: 

“Why,  he  wants  to  know  where  Mrs.  Burt  lives.  Just  write 

on  a piece  of  paper:  'East  Street,  No.  , third 

story;  turn  to  your  right;  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.’  I 
wonder  if  he’s  never  been  there  yet?” 

John  was  not  an  elaborate  correspondent,  and  he  simply 
wrote  down  his  better  half’s  direction,  saying  nothing  what- 
ever of  Mrs.  Burt  herself,  and  thus  conveying  to  Frederic  no 
idea  that  Merton  was  not  the  real  name. 

“A  letter  from  Iowa,”  said  Frederic  to  Alice,  as  he  came  in 
from  the  office,  on  the  very  night  when  Marian  was  walking 
slowly  past  what  was  once  her  home.  “I  have  the  street  and 
number,  and  tomorrow  I am  going  there.” 

“And  I am  going,  too,”  cried  Alice.  “Won’t  Marian  be  sur- 
prised to  see  us  both ! I hope  she’ll  come  to  the  door  herself; 
and,  Frederic,  if  she  does,  you  will  kiss  her,  won’t  you,  and 
act  like  you  was  glad,  for  if  you  don’t,  maybe  she  won’t  come 
back  with  us.” 

“I  will  do  right,”  answered  Frederic,  adding  in  a low  tone, 
“Perhaps  she  will  not  be  there.” 

“Yes,  she  will,”  was  Alice’s  positive  reply,  “or  if  she’s  not, 
somebody  can  tell  us  where  she  is.  Only  to  think,  we  shall  see 
her  tomorrow.  I do  wish  it  would  hurry,  and  I’m  glad  Miss 
Grey  is  not  coming  until  the  day  after.  It  will  be  so  nice  to 
have  them  both  here.  Do  you  suppose  they’ll  like  each  other, 
Marian  and  Miss  Grey?” 

“I  dare  say  they  will,”  returned  Frederic,  smiling  at  the 
little  girl’s  enthusiasm,  and  hoping  she  might  not  be  disap- 
pointed. 

Anon,  a shadow  clouded  Alice’s  face,  and  observing  it, 
Frederic  passed  his  hand  over  her  hair,  saying:  “What  is  it, 
birdie?” 

“Frederic,”  said  Alice,  creeping  closely  to  the  side  of  the 
young  man,  “isn’t  Miss  Grey  very  beautiful?” 


MARIAN  GREY 


181 


“Mr.  Gordon  and  Ben  say  so returned  Frederic,  and  Alice 
continued : 

“Don't  you  be  angry  with  me,  but  you  loved  Isabel  the  best 
because  she  was  the  handsomest,  and  now  you  won't  love  Miss 
Grey  better  than  Marian,  will  you,  and  you’ll  be  Marian's 
husband  right  off,  won't  you?" 

“When  Marian  comes  here  it  will  be  as  my  wife,"  said 
Frederic,  and  with  this  answer  Alice  was  satisfied. 

“I  wish  it  would  grow  dark  faster,"  she  said,  for  she  could 
tell  when  it  was  night;  and  Frederic,  while  listening  to  the 
many  different  ways  she  conjured  up  for  them  to  meet 
Marian,  became  almost  as  impatient  as  herself  for  the  mor- 
row, when  his  renewed  hopes  might,  perhaps,  be  realized. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  hurried  through,  for 
neither  Alice  nor  Frederic  could  eat,  and  Mrs.  Russell,  when 
she  saw  how  much  was  left  untouched,  congratulated  herself 
upon  its  answering  for  the  hired  man's  dinner,  and  thus  giving 
her  a nice  long  time  for  sewing. 

“It  isn't  a bit  likely  Miss  Grey  will  come  today,"  said  Alice, 
as  she  followed  Frederic  to  the  carriage,  and,  confident  of 
this,  they  gave  Miss  Grey  no  further  thought,  but  went  on 
their  way  in  search  of  Marian.  When  they  reached  New 
York,  Frederic,  who  had  some  business  to  transact,  left  Alice 
in  the  parlor  at  the  Hotel  Astor,  where  she  sat  with  her  face 
to  the  window,  just  as  though  she  could  see  the  passers-by; 
and,  as  she  sat  there,  a party  who  were  leaving  glanced  hastily 
in,  all  seeing  the  little  figure  by  the  window,  and  one  thinking 
to  herself : “She  wears  her  hair  combed  back,  as  Alice  used 
to  do." 

. Then  the  group  passed  on,  while  over  the  face  of  the  blind 
girl  there  flitted  for  an  instant  a wondering,  bewildering  ex- 
pression, for  her  quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of  a voice 
which  it  seemed  to  her  she  had  heard  before — not  there — not 
in  New  York — but  far  away,  at  Redstone  Hall.  What  was  it? 
Who  was  it?  She  bent  her  head  to  listen,  hoping  to  hear  it 
again,  but  it  came  no  more,  for  Marian  Grey  had  left  the 
house,  and  was  passing  up  Broadway.  It  was  not  long  ere 
Frederic  returned,  and  taking  Alice's  hand,  he  led  her  into  the 
street,  and  entered  a Third  Avenue  car. 

“We  are  on  the  right  track,  I think,"  he  said,  “for  it  was 
this  way  she  went  with  the  man  described  by  Sarah  Green/* 

Alice  gave  a sigh  of  relief,  and,  leaning  against  Frederic, 
rather  enjoyed  the  pleasant  motion  of  the  car,  although  she 
wished  it  would  go  faster. 

“Won't  we  ever  get  there?"  she  asked,  as  they  plodded 


182 


MARIAN  GREY 


slowly  on,  stopping  often  to  take  in  a passenger,  or  set  one 
down. 

“Yes,  by  and  by,”  said  Frederic  encouragingly.  “I  am  not 
quite  certain  of  the  street,  myself,  but  I shall  know  it  when  I 
see  the  name,  of  course”;  and  he  looked  anxiously  out  as  he 
passed  along.  “Here  it  is!”  he  cried,  at  last;  and,  seizing 
Alice’s  arm,  he  rather  dragged  than  led  her  from  the  car,  and 
out  upon  the  crossing. 

“I’ve  found  it!”  he  said,  as  his  eye  caught  the  number; 
and  now  that  he  believed  himself  near  to  what  he  had  sought 
so  long,  he  was  more  impatient  than  Alice  herself. 

He  could  not  wait  for  her  uncertain  footsteps,  and,  pale 
with  excitement,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  hurried  up  the 
narrow  stairs,  which  many  a time  had  creaked  to  Marian’s 
tread.  The  third  story  was  reached  at  last,  and  he  stood  pant- 
ing by  the  door,  where  Mr.  Jennings  had  said  that  he  must 
stop.  It  was  open,  and  the  greasy,  uncarpeted  floor,  of  which 
he  caught  a glimpse,  looked  cheerless  and  uninviting,  but  it 
did  not  keep  him  back  a moment,  and  he  advanced  into  the 
room,  which,  by  the  three  heads  at  the  window,  he  knew  was 
the  same  where  the  white  curtain  once  had  hung,  and  where 
now  the  glaring  August  sunlight  came  pouring  in,  unbroken 
and  unsubdued. 

At  the  sight  of  a stranger  one  of  the  heads  turned  toward 
him  and  a little  voice  said:  # ' 

“Ma’s  out  washin’,  she  is,  and  won’t  be  home  till  night.” 
There  was  a cold,  heavy  feeling  of  disappointment  settling 
around  Frederic’s  heart,  for  nothing  there  seemed  at  all  like 
what  he  remembered  of  the  neat,  tidy  Mrs.  Merton,  but  he 
nerved  himself  to  ask : 

“What  is  your  mother’s  name?” 

“Bunce,  and  my  pa  is  in  the  Tombs,”  was  the  reply. 

“Flow  long  have  you  lived  here?”  was  the  next  question, 
asked  with  a colder,  heavier  heart.  ; 

“Next  Christmas  a year,”  said  the  little  girl,  and  catching 
Frederic’s  arm,  Alice  whispered: 

“Do  let’s  get  out  into  the  open  air.”  j 

Nearly  all  the  present  tenants  had  moved  there  since  Mrs. 
Burt’s  death,  and  none  knew  aught  of  her  save  one  rather  de- 
cent-looking woman,  who  said  “she  remembered  the  folks 
well,  though  they  held  their  heads  above  the  likes  of  her, 
She’d  seen  them  cornin’  in  and  out  and  had  peeked  into  their 
room,  so  she  knew  they  was  well  to  do.”  . 

“Was  their  name  Merton,  and  did  a young  girl  live  with 
them  ?”  asked  Frederic ; and  the  woman  replied : 


MARIAN  GREY 


183 


“Merton  sounds  some  like  it,  though  I’d  sooner  say  it  was 
Burton,  or  something  like  that.  I never  even  so  much  as 
>assed  the  time  of  day  with  ’em,  for  I tell  you  they  felt  above 
ne;  but  the  girl  was  a jewel — so  trim  and  genteel-like.” 

“That  was  Marian,”  whispered  Alice,  and  Frederic  con- 
inued : 

“Where  are  they  now?” 

“Bless  you,”  returned  the  woman,  “one  on  ’em  is  in  heaven, 
md  the  Lord  only  knows  where  t’other  one  went  to.” 

Alice’s  hand,  which  lay  in  Frederic’s,  was  clutched  with  a 
>ainful  grasp ; and  the  perspiration  gathered  about  the  young 
nan’s  white  lips  as  he  stammered  out : 

“Which  one  is  dead?  Not  the  girl?  You  dare  not  tell  me 
hat?” 

“I  dare  if  it  was  so,”  returned  the  woman;  “but  ’twant, 
twas  the  old  one — the  one  I took  to  be  her  mother;  though 
; have  heard  a story  about  the  girl’s  cornin’  here  long  time 
Lgo,  before  I moved  here.  I was  away  when  the  woman  died, 
md  when  I got  back  the  room  was  empty,  and  the  boy  and 
*irl  was  gone;  nobody  knows  where;  and  I hain’t  seen  ’em 
iince.” 

There  was  now  nothing  to  do  but  to  return  to  the  hotel, 
weaving  Alice  there,  Frederic  went  back  again  to  the  street 
md  made  the  most  minute  inquiries,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
de  could  not  obtain  the  least  clew  to  her,  and  he  retraced  his 
;teps  with  a feeling  that  she  was  as  really  lost  to  him  as 
f Sarah  Green’s  letter  had  been  true  and  Marian  resting  in 
ler  grave. 

“Why  had  that  letter  been  written?”  he  asked  himself  again 
md  again. 

Somebody  knew  of  Marian,  and  there  was  a mystery  con- 
lected  with  it — a mystery  of  wrong,  it  might  be.  Perhaps  she 
:ould  not  come  back,  even  though  she  wanted  to,  and  his 
Dulses  quickened  with  painful  rapidity  as  he  thought  of  all 
he  imaginary  terrors  which  might  surround  the  lost  one.  It 
-vas  indeed  a sad  reflection,  and  his  spirits  were  unusually  de- 
Dressed,  when  just  before  sunset  he  took  Alice  by  one  hand, 
i basket  in  the  other,  and  started  for  home. 

“I  didn’t  think  we  should  come  back  alone,”  said  Alice, 
vhen  at  last  they  reached  the  depot  at  Yonkers,  and  she  was 
ifted  into  the  carriage  waiting  for  them.  “It’s  dreadful  we 
:ouldn’t  find  her,  but  I’m  so  glad  we’ve  got  her  cat,”  and  she 
guarded  the  basket  carefully,  as  if  it  had  contained  the  dia- 
nonds  of  India. 

Frederic  did  not  care  to  talk,  and  folding  his  arms,  he 


184 


MARIAN  GREY 


leaned  moodily  back  in  his  carriage,  evincing  no  interest  in 
anything  until,  as  they  drew  near  home,  the  driver  said  to 
Alice : 

“Guess  who’s  come?” 

“Oh,  I don’t  know — Dinah,  maybe,”  was  Alices  reply;  and 
then  Frederic  smiled  at  the  preposterous  idea. 

“No;  guess  again,”  said  the  driver.  “Somebody  as  hand- 
some as  a doll.”  . , , 

“Miss  Grey!”  cried  Alice,  almost  upsetting  her  basket  m 
her  delight. 

Eagerly  she  questioned  John,  and  then  replied: 

“I’m  so  glad,  though  I was  going  to  fix  her  room  so  nice 
tomorrow — but  no  matter,  it’s  always  pleasant  up  there.  How 
lonesome  she  must  have  been  all  day,  with  nothing  but  the 
garden,  the  books,  and  the  piano.” 

“She  has  been  homesick,  I guess  ” said  John,  “for  I seen 
her  cryin’,  I thought,  under  a tree  in  the  garden.” 

“Poor  thing!”  sighed  Alice.  “She  won’t  be  homesick  any 
more  when  we  get  there,  will  she,  Frederic?” 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  MEETING 

Notwithstanding  Alice’s  fears  the  day  had  not  been  a 
long  one  to  Marian,  who  had  been  so  occupied  in  unpacking 
her  trunks  and  in  going  over  the  house  and  grounds,  as 
scarcely  to  heed  the  lapse  of  time,  and  she  was  surprised 
when,  about  sunset,  she  saw  John  drive  from  the  yard,  and 
knew  he  was  going  for  his  master.  Not  till  then  did  she  fully 
realize  her  position,  and  she  sought  her  chamber  to  compose 
herself  for  the  dreaded  trial  which  each  moment  came  nearer 
and  nearer. 

“Will  Frederic  know  me?”  she  asked  herself  a dozen  times, 
and  as  often  answered  no — but  Alice,  ah,  Alice,  there  was 
danger  to  be  apprehended  from  her,  and  Marian  felt  that  she 
would  far  rather  meet  the  scrutinizing  gaze  of  Frederic  Ray- 
mond’s eyes  than  submit  herself  to  the  touch  of  the  blind  girl’s 
fingers,  or  trust  her  voice  to  the  blind  girl’s  ear. 

“I  will  be  calm,”  she  said,  and  with  one  tremendous  effort 
of  the  will  she  quieted  the  violent  throbbings  of  her  heart,  and 
leaning  on  her  elbow,  pretended  to  be  reading,  though  not  a 
sound  escaped  her  ear.  She  heard  the  little  feet  come  running 
up  the  walk,  and  the  heavy,  manly  tread  following  in  the  rear. 

Half  rising  to  her  feet,  she  waited  for  the  first  words  of 
greeting. 

“Miss  Grey,  I believe”;  and  bowing  low,  Frederic  Raymond 
advanced  toward  Marian,  who  now  stood  up,  so  that  the  blaze 
of  the  chandelier  fell  full  upon  her,  revealing  at  once  her  face 
and  form. 

Had  her  very  life  depended  upon  it  she  could  not  have 
spoken  then,  for  the  stormy  emotions  the  name  “Miss  Grey” 
called  up,  mastered  her  speech  entirely.  She  knew  he  would 
thus  address  her,  but  it  grated  harshly  on  her  ear  to  hear  him 
call  her  so,  and  her  heart  yearned  for  the  familiar  name  of 
Marian,  though  she  had  no  reason  to  expect  it  from  him. 

“You  are  welcome  to  Riverside,”  he  continued;  “and  I re- 
gret that  your  first  day  here  should  have  been  so  lonely.” 

This  gave  her  a little  time,  and  conquering  her  weakness, 
she  extended  her  hand  to  take  the  one  he  offered.  Hers  was 
cold  and  clammy,  and  trembled  like  an  imprisoned  bird,  as  it 
Marian  Grey  185 


186 


MARIAN  GREY 


lay  in  his  broad,  warm  palm.  For  an  instant  he  held  it  there, 
and  gazed  down  into  her  sweet,  childish  face,  which  did  not 
look  wholly  unfamiliar  to  him,  while  she  herself  seemed  more 
like  a dear  friend  than  a total  stranger.  The  tie  between 
them,  which  naught  but  death  could  sever,  and  which  was 
bound  so  closely  around  Marian’s  heart,  brought  to  his  own 
an  answering  throb,  and  when  at  last  she  spoke,  assuring 
him  that  she  had  not  been  lonely  in  the  least,  he  started, 
for  there  was  something  in  the  tone  which  moved  him  as  a 
stranger  oft  is  moved,  when  hearing  in  the  calm,  still  night 
the  air  of  “Home,  Sweet  Home.”  It  carried  him  back  to  Red- 
stone Hall,  years  and  years  ago,  when  in  the  moonlight  he 
played  with  his  dusky  companion  upon  the  river  brink.  But 
Marian  Lindsey  had  no  portion  of  his  thoughts  at  the  first  in- 
terview with  Marian  Grey,  who  ventured  at  last  to  look  into 
his  face  just  as  he  was  looking  into  hers.  Oh,  how  much  like 
the  Frederic  of  old  he  was,  save  that  in  his  mature  manhood, 
he  was  finer,  nobler  looking,  while  the  proud  fire  of  his  eyes 
had  given  place  to  a milder,  softer  expression,  and  she  felt  in- 
tuitively that  he  was  far  more  worthy  of  any  woman’s  love 
than  when  she  knew  him  before.  . : 

Motioning  her  to  a chair,  he,  too,  sat  down  at  a little  dis- 
tance and  conversed  with  her  pleasantly,  as  friend  converses 
with  friend,  asking  about  her  journey,  making  inquiries  after 
Mrs.  Sheldon’s  family,  and  experiencing  a most  unaccountable 
sensation  when  he  saw  how  she  blushed  at  the  mention  of 
William  Gordon.  Ben  was  next  talked  about,  and  Marian 
was  growing  eloquent  in  his  praise,  when  suddenly  a sight 
met  her  view  which  petrified  her  powers  of  speech  and  sent 
the  blood  ebbing  backward  from  her  cheek  and  lip.  In  the 
hall  without,  and  where  Frederic  could  not  see  her,  the  blind 
girl  stood,  her  hands  clasped  and  tightly  raised,  her  lips  apart,: 
her  eyes  rolling,  her  head  bent  forward,  and  her  ear  turned 
toward  the  door,  whence  came  the  sound  which  had  arrested 
her  footsteps  and  chained  her  to  the  spot.  She  had  started; 
for  the  parlor  and  come  thus  far,  when  she,  too,  caught  the 
tone  which  had  affected  even  Frederic,  and  her  head  grew 
dizzy  with  the  bewildering  sound,  for  to  her  it  brought  mem- 
ories of  Marian.  Had  she  come  ? Was  she  there  with  Fred- 
eric and  Miss  Grey?  Eagerly  she  waited  to  hear  the  sound 
repeated,  wondering  why  Miss  Grey,  too,  did  not  join  in  the 
conversation.  It  came  again,  the  old,  familiar  strain,  though 
tuned  to  a sadder  note,  for  Marian  had  suffered  much  since 
last  she  talked  with  Alice,  and  it  was  perceptible  even  in  her 
voice.  Tighter  and  tighter  the  small  hands  pressed  together 


MARIAN  GREY 


187 


—lower  and  lower  bent  the  head,  while  a shade  of  disappoint- 
ment flitted  over  the  face  of  the  listening  child,  for  this  time 
it  did  not  seem  quite  so  natural  as  at  first,  and  she  knew,  too, 
fiiat  ’twas  Miss  Grey  who  spoke,  for  her  subject  was  Ben 
Butterworth. 

“What  is  it?”  asked  Frederic,  observing  that  Miss  Grey 
stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a remark. 

Marian  pointed  toward  the  spot  where  Alice  stood,  but  ere 
Frederic  had  time  to  step  forward,  the  loud  ring  of  the  bell 
started  Alice  from  an  attitude  which,  had  Frederic  Raymond 
seen  it,  would  surely  have  led  to  a discovery. 

“The  little  girl,  she  acts  so  singular,”  said  Marian,  think- 
ng  she  must  make  some  explanation. 

“She’s  blind,  you  know,”  was  answered  in  a low  tone,  and 
^oing  toward  the  hall,  Frederic  met  with  Alice  just  as  a 
servant  opened  the  outer  door,  and  a stranger  entered,  asking 
:or  Mr.  Raymond. 

“In  a moment,”  said  Frederic,  and  leading  Alice  up  to  Marian, 
le  continued,  “your  teacher,”  and  then  left  the  two  together. 

For  an  instant  there  was  perfect  silence,  and  Marian  knew 
;he  blind  girl  could  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart,  while  she 
n turn  watched  the  wonder  and  perplexity  written  on  the 
speaking  face  turned  upward  toward  her  own,  the  brown  eyes 
'iveted  upon  her,  as  for  once  they  had  broken  from  their 
irison  walls  and  could  discern  what  was  before  them. 

Oh,  how  Marian  longed  to  take  the  little  helpless  creature 
n her  arms,  to  hug  her,  to  kiss  her,  to  cry  over  her,  and  tell 
ler  of  the  love  which  had  never  known  one  moment’s  abate- 
ment during  the  long  years  of  their  separation.  But  she  dared 
lot;  the  time  was  not  yet,  and  she  sat  gazing  at  her  to  see  if 
she  had  changed  since  the  night  when  she  left  her  sleeping  so 
quietly  in  their  dear  old  room  at  home.  She  was  now  nearly 
welve,  but  her  figure  was  so  slight,  and  her  features  so  child- 
ike,  that  few  would  have  guessed  her  more  than  nine,  unless 
Fey  judged  by  her  mature,  womanly  mind.  To  Marian  she 
seemed  the  same ; and  when,  unable  longer  to  restrain  herself, 
she  drew  the  child  to  her,  and,  kissing  her  forehead,  said  to 
ler  kindly : 

“You  are  Alice,  my  pupil,  I am  sure.  Alice  what?” 

“Alice  Raymond”;  and  the  sightless  eyes  never  moved  for 
m instant  from  the  questioner’s  face. 

“Are  you  very  nearly  related  to  Mr.  Raymond?”  asked 
Marian;  and  Alice  replied: 

“Second  cousin,  that’s  all.  But  he  has  been  more  than  a 
irother  to  me  since — since — ” 


188 


MARIAN  GREY 


The  perplexed,  mystified  look  increased  on  Alice’s  face,  and 
her  gaze  grew  more  intense  as  she  continued:  “Since  Marian 

went  away.”  # i 

There  was  a moment’s  stillness,  and  then  the  hand  which 
hitherto  had  rested  on  Marian’s  lap  was  raised  until  it 
reached  the  head,  where  it  lay  lightly,  very  lightly ; though  to 
Marian  it  seemed  like  the  weight  of  a thousand  pounds,  and 
she  felt  every  hair  prickle  at  its  root  when  the  blind  girl  said  { 
to  her : 

“Ain’t  you  Marian?” 

“Yes,  Marian  Grey.  Didn’t  you  know  my  first  name  ?”  was  \ 
the  answer,  spoken  so  deliberately  that  Marian  was  astonished 
at  herself. 

There  was  a wavering  then  in  the  brown  eyes,  a quivering 
of  the  lids,  and  the  great  tears  rolled  down  Alice’s  cheeks ; for 
with  this  calm  reply,  uttered  so  naturally,  the  hope  she  had 
scarcely  dared  to  cherish  passed  away,  and  she  murmured 
sadly : 

“It  cannot  be  her.” 

“What  makes  you  cry,  darling  ?”  asked  Marian,  choking 
back  her  own  tears,  which  were  just  ready  to  flow,  and  which 
did  gush  forth  in  torrents,  when  Alice  answered : 

“Oh,  I wish  I wasn’t  blind  tonight !” 

This  surely  was  a good  excuse  for  weeping  and  pressing  the  : 
little  one  to  her  bosom.  Marian  wept  over  her  passionately  : 
for  a few  moments ; then  drying  her  eyes,  she  said : 

“Why  tonight  more  than  any  other  time?” 

“Because  I want  so  much  to  see  how  you  look,”  returned 
Alice;  adding,  immediately:  “May  I feel  your  face?  It’s  the 
only  way  I have  of  seeing.” 

“Certainly,”  answered  Marian;  and  the  fingers  wandered 
slowly,  cautiously,  over  every  feature,  involuntarily  caressing; 
the  fair,  round  cheek,  but  lingering  longest  on  the  hair— the, 
beautiful  hair — whose  glossy  waves  were  perceptible  even  to 
the  touch.  ' 

“What  color  is  it?”  she  asked,  winding  one  of  the  curls 
around  her  finger. 

“Some  call  it  auburn,  some  chestnut,  and  some  a mixture  of 
both,”  was  the  reply,  and  Alice  continued  her  investigations 
by  mentally  comparing  its  length  with  a standard  she  had  in 
her  own  mind. 

The  two  did  not  agree,  for  the  curls  she  remembered  were 
longer  and  far  more  wiry  than  the  silken  tresses  of  Miss 
Grey.  . . & 

“How  tall  are  you  ?”  she  suddenly  asked,  and  Marian  tried 


MARIAN  GREY 


189 


to  laugh,  although  every  nerve  was  thrilling  with  fear,  for  she 
knew  she  was  passing  through  a dangerous  test. 

“Rather  tall,”  she  replied,  standing  up.  “Yes,  very  tall, 
some  would  say.  Put  up  your  hand  and  see.” 

Alice  did  as  she  requested,  and  her  tears  came  faster,  as 
she  whispered,  mournfully,  “You’re  the  tallest.” 

“Did  you  think  we  had  met  before?”  asked  Marian,  and 
then  the  sobs  of  the  child  burst  forth  unrestrained. 

Burying  her  face  in  Marian’s  lap,  she  cried:  “Yes — no — I 
don’t  know  what  I thought,  only  you  don’t  seem  to  me  like  I 
supposed  you  would.  You  make  me  tremble  so,  and  I keep 
thinking  of  somebody  we  lost  long  ago.  At  first  your  voice 
sounded  so  natural  that  I ’most  knew  she  was  here,  but  you 
ain’t  even  like  her.  You’re  taller  and  handsomer,  I reckon, 
and  yet  there  is  something  about  you  that  makes  my  heart  beat 
so  fast.  Oh,  I wish  I could  see  what  it  is.  What  made  God 
make  me  blind?” 

Never  before  had  Marian  heard  a murmur  from  the  lips  of 
the  unfortunate  child,  and  it  seemed  to  her  cruel  not  to  whis- 
per words  of  comfort  in  her  ear.  But  she  could  not  do  it  yet, 
and  so  she  kissed  her  tenderly,  saying:  “Did  you  love  this, 

other  one  so  very  much  ?” 

“Yes,  very,  very  much,”  was  Alice’s  reply;  “and  it  hurts 
me  so  to  think  we  cannot  find  her.” 

Frederic  appeared  just  then,  telling  them  tea  was  ready. 

“I  am  afraid  you  will  think  we  keep  Lent  here  all  the  year 
around,”  he  said  apologetically.  “I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
Mrs.  Russell  compelled  you  to  fast  until  our  return.” 

“It  didn’t  matter,”  Marian  replied;  though  she  had  worn 
dered  a little  at  the  non-appearance  of  supper,  for  Mrs.  Rus« 
sell,  intent  upon  her  dress,  had  no  idea  of  “makin’  two  fusses,” 
and  she  kept  her  visitor  waiting  until  the  return  of  Frederic, 
saying,  “the  supper  would  taste  all  the  better  when  it  did 
come.” 

Very  willingly  Marian  followed  Frederic  to  the  dining 
room,  where  everything  was  indicative  of  elegance  and 
wealth. 

“Mrs.  Jones  used  to  sit  here,  and  I now  give  the  place  to 
you,”  said  Frederic,  motioning  to  the  seat  by  the  tea  tray,  and 
himself  sitting  down  opposite,  with  Alice  upon  his  right. 

Marian  became  her  new  position  well,  and  so  Frederic 
thought,  as  he  saw  how  gracefully  her  snowy  fingers  handled 
the  silver  urn,  and  how  much  at  home  she  seemed.  There  was 
a strange  fascination  about  her  as  she  sat  there  at  the  head  of 
his  table,  with  the  bright  bloom  on  her  cheek,  and  the  dewy 


190 


MARIAN  GREY 


luster  in  her  beautiful  blue  eyes,  which  occasionally  wandered 
toward  the  figure  opposite,  but  as  often  fell  beneath  the 
curious  gaze  which  they  encountered.  Frederic  could  not  tor-  I 
bear  looking  at  her,  even  though  he  saw  that  it  embarrassed  j 
her— she  was  so  fresh,  so  fair,  so  modest— -while  there  was  j 
about  her  an  indescribable  something  which  he  could  not  de- 
fine  for  though  a stranger,  as  he  supposed,  she  seemed  near 
to  him— so  near  that  he  almost  felt  he  had  a right  to  pass  his  ; 
arm  around  her,  and  kiss  the  girlish  lips  which  Will  Goidon 

ha“PoorWil°”ahe°s!ghed,  “he  did  lose  a prize  when  he  lost 

MInvoluntaTiiy  his  mind  went  back  to  Redstone  Hall  and  to 
the  time  when  another  Marian  sat  opposite,  and  did  ior 
the  office  this  one  was  doing.  The  contrast  between  the  two 
was  great  but,  with  a nobleness  worthy  of  the  man,  he 
thought,  “Marian  Grey  is  more  beautiful,  ’tis  true,  but  Marian 

LlThen  h^  remembered  the  day  when  Isabel  first  sat  at  Ins 
board,  and  he  had  felt  it  a sin  to  look  at  her  in  all  her  queenly 
beauty.  He  had  grown  hard  since  then,  for  he  could  not  th urn 
it  wicked  to  look  at  Marian  Grey,  or  deem  it  a wrong  to  the 
other  one,  and  he  feasted  his  eyes  upon  her  until  she  arose 
from  the  table,  and  went  away  with  Alice.  He  soon  followed 

th“Will  you  play  for  us,  Miss  Grey?”  asked  Frederic,  and 
without  a word  of  apology,  Marian  seated  herself  at  the  piano, 
whose  rich,  mellow  tones  aroused  her  enthusiasm  at  once,  and 
she  played  more  than  usually  well,  while  Alice  stood  by  listen- 
ing eagerly,  and  Frederic  looked  on,  scarce  heeding  the  sti  - 
Grig  notes,  so  intent  was  he  upon  the  dimpled  hands  which 

swept  the  keys  so  skillfully.  - 

On  the  third  finger  there  was  a little  cornelian  rm,,  the 
first  gift  of  Ben,  and  as  he  looked  he  felt  certain  lie  had  seen 
that  ring  and  those  hands  before.  But  where . He  tried  to 
recall  the  time  and  the  place.  Stepping  forward  he  looked 
into  her  face  but  that  gave  him  no  clew,  only  the  ring  and 
the  hands  were  familiar.  Suddenly  he  started,  for  Jje  remem- 
bered the  when  and  the  where— remembered,  too,  that  Alice, 
when  told  of  the  girl  with  the  brown  veil,  had  said  to  him. 

“Wasn’t  that  our  Marian?”  hut 

He  had  accepted  the  suggestion  as  a possible  one  then,  but 
he  doubted  it  now,  for  if  that  maiden  were  Marian  Grey,  it 
certainly  could  not  have  been  Marian  Lindsey.  Hie  exquisite 
music  ceased,  and  ere  Alice  had  time  for  a word  of  comment, 


MARIAN  GREY 


191 


he  asked  abruptly:  "Miss  Grey,  did  you  never  ride  in  the 

cars  with  me  in  New  York?” 

The  question  was  a startling  one,  but  Marian’s  face  was 
turned  from  him,  and  he  could  not  see  the  effort  she  made  to 
answer  him  calmly. 

“I  think  it  very  probable.  I have  been  in  the  cars  a great 
many  times,  and  with  a great  many  different  people.” 

"Yes,  but  one  rainy  night,  more  than  three  years  ago,  did 
not  I offer  you  a seat  between  myself  and  the  door?  You 
wore  a brown  veil,  and  carried  a willow  basket,  if  it  were 
you.  Something  about  your  appearance  has  puzzled  me  all 
-he  evening,  and  I think  I must  have  met  you  before.  It  was 
3n  the  Third  Avenue  cars.” 

Marian  trembled  violently,  but  by  constantly  turning  the 
eaves  of  her  music  book  she  managed  to  conceal  her  agitation, 
md  when  Frederic  ceased  speaking  she  answered  in  her  nat- 
ural tone:  "Now  that  you  recall  the  circumstances,  I believe 
[ do  remember  something  about  it,  though  you  do  not  look  as 
hat  man  did.  I imagined  he  had  been  sick,  or  was  in 
rouble,”  and  Marian’s  blue  eyes  turned  sideways  to  witness, 
f.  possible,  the  effect  of  her  words.  But  she  was  disap- 
pointed, for  she  could  not  see  how  white  Frederic  was  for  a 
jingle  instant,  but  she  felt  it  in  his  voice,  as  he  replied: 
“You  are  right.  I had  been  sick,  and  I was  in  great  trouble.” 
“Wasn’t  that  when  you  were  looking  for  Marian?”  Alice 
isked,  and  again  the  blue  eyes  sought  Frederic’s  face,  turning 
his  time  so  that  they  could  see  it. 

Yes,  I was  hunting  for  Marian,”  was  the  answer,  and  the 
leep  sigh  which  accompanied  the  words  brought  a thrill  of 
oy  to  the  Marian  hunted  for,  and  she  knew  now,  and  from 
us  own  lips,  too,  that  he  had  sought  for  her,  nay,  that  he  was 
poking  for  her  even  then,  when  in  her  anger  she  censured 
urn  for  not  recognizing  her. 

Little  by  little  she  was  learning  the  truth  just  as  it  was ; and 
/hen,  at  a late  hour,  she  bade  Frederic  good-night,  and  went 
o her  own  chamber,  her  heart  was  almost  too  full  for  utter- 
nce,  for  she  felt  that  the  long,  dark  night  was  over,  and  the 
awn  she  had  waited  for  so  long  was  breaking  at  last  around 
er.  Intuitively,  Alice,  who  had  been  permitted  to  sit  up  as 
mg  as  she.  did,  caught  something  of  the  same  spirit.  “It  is 
Imost  as  nice  as  if  .Marian  really  were  there,”  she  said;  and 
he  came  twice  to  kiss  her  governess,  while  on  her  face  was 
most  satisfied  expression,  as  she  nestled  among  her  pillows 
:nd  listened  to  the  footsteps  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  where 
larian  made  her  nightly  toilet. 


192 


MARIAN  GREY 


“Oh  I wish  she’d  let  me  sleep  with  her !”  she  thought.  “It 
would  ’be  a heap  more  like  having  Marian  hack.”  And  when 
all  was  still,  she  stepped  upon  the  floor,  and  glided  to  the  bed- 
side of  Marian,  who  was  not  aware  of  her  approach  until  a 
voice  whispered  in  her  ear : 

“May  I stay  here  with  you  ? I ve  been  making  believe  that 
you  was  Marian — our  Marian,  I mean — and  I want  to  sleep 
with  you  so  much,  just  as  I used  to  do  with  her  may  1 . 

“Yes,  darling,”  was  the  answer,  as  Marian  folded  her 
arms  lovingly  around  the  neck  of  the  blind  girl,  whose  soft, 
warm  cheek  was  pressed  against  her  own.  _ 

And  there,  just  as  they  were  used  to  .do  in  their  old  rven- 
tucky  home,  ere  sorrow  had  come,  to  either,  they  lay  again 
side  by  side,  Marian  and  Alice;  the  one  dreaming  sweet 
dreams  of  the  Marian  come  back  to  her  again ; and  the  other 
that  to  her  the  gates  of  Paradise  were  opened,  and  she  saw  the 
the  glory  shining  through,  just  as  in  Frederic  Raymonds 
eyes  she  had  seen  the  glimmer  of  the  love  light  which  was  yet 
to  overshadow  her,  and  brighten  her  future  pathway. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


LIFE  AT  RIVERSIDE 

It  was  a joyful  waking  which  came  to  Marian  next  morn- 
ing, and,  when  fresh  and  glowing  from  her  invigorating  bath, 
she  descended  to  the  piazza,  she  was  surprised  at  finding 
Frederic  there  before  her,  looking  haggard  and  pale,  as  if  the 
boon  of  sleep  had  been  denied  him.  After  Marian  and  Alice 
had  bidden  him  good-night,  he,  too,  had  retired  to  his  room, 
which  was  directly  under  theirs ; and,  sitting  in  his  armchair, 
he  had  listened  to  the  footsteps  above,  readily  distinguishing 
one  from  the  other,  and  experiencing,  unconsciously,  a vague, 
delicious  feeling  of  comfort  in  knowing  that  the  long-talked- 
of  Marian  Grey  had  come  to  him  at  last,  and  that  she  was 
even  more  beautiful  than  he  had  imagined  her  to  be,  from 
Will  Gordon’s  glowing  description.  He  would  keep  her  with 
him,  too,  he  said,  until  the  other  one  was  found,  if  that  should 
ever  be;  and  then,  as  the  footsteps  and  the  murmur  of  voices 
in  the  chamber  above  ceased,  and  all  about  the  house  was  still, 
his  heart  went  out  after  the  other  one,  demanding  of  the  soli- 
tude around  to  show  him  where  she  was — to  lead  him  to  her,  so 
that  he  could  bring  her  back  to  the  home  where,  each  day,  he 
was  wanting  her  more  and  more.  And  the  solitude,  thus 
questioned,  invariably  carried  his  thoughts  to  Marian  Grey, 
whose  delicate,  girlish  beauty  had  made  so  strong  an  impres- 
sion upon  his  mind.  How  would  the  two  compare?  he  asked. 
Would  not  the  governess  far  outshine  the  wife?  Would  not 
the  contrast  be  a painful  one  ? 

“No,  no!”  he  said;  “for,  though  Marian  Lindsey  were  not 
as  beautiful  as  Marian  Grey,  she  was  gentle,  pure  and  good.” 
And  then,  as  he  sought  his  pillow,  he  went  back  again  in 
fancy  to  that  feverish  sick  room,  and  the  tender  love  which 
alone  had  saved  him  from  death ; while  mingled  with  this  re- 
membrance were  confused  thoughts  of  the  veiled  maiden  in 
the  corner  of  the  car — of  the  geranium  growing  in  the  win- 
dow, and  of  Marian  Grey,  who  seemed  a part  of  everything — 
for,  turn  which  way  he  would,  her  blue  eyes  were  sure  to 
shine  upon  him;  and  once,  when,  for  a few  moments,  he  fell 
into  a troubled  sleep,  she  said  to  him,  “I  am  the  Marian  you 
seek  ” 

j Marian  Grey  193 


194. 


MARIAN  GREY 


' Then  this  vision  faded,  and  he  saw  a little  grave,  on  whose 
Xing*™ AndhI  he' walked  ‘ Spotty  came  Paring  to  his  s^ 

Haris  & t 

turned  and  was  safe  beneath  his  root  . 

" Frederic  Raymond  could  not  be  said  to  care  particulaily 
for  cats  but  there  was  a charm  connected  with  this  one  gam- 
1]i  rr  a’t  his  feet  and  he  did  not  deem  it  an  unmanly  act  to 
sttpgdown  and  caress  it  for  the  sake  of  her  who  had  often 

^“Can'you  tell"  me  nothing  of  your  mistress  ?”  he  said,  aloud, 

Sr»hc.S”'r  had  caught  a sound  he  did  not 
hear,  bounded  toward  the  door  where  Marian  Grey  was stand- 
ine  Advancing  toward  her,  Frederic  said.  You  must  ex 
cuse  me  Miss  Grey.  I am  not  often  guilty  of  petting  cats 
but  this ’one  has  a peculiar  attraction  for  me,  inasmuch  as  it 
once  belonged  to-to-to  Mrs.  Raymond,”  and  Frederic  felt 
vastly  relieved  to  think  he  had  actually  spoken  of  his  wife  to 
MarianGrey,  and  called  her  Mrs.  Raymond,  too!  He  knew 
Will  Gordon  had  told  her  the  story,  and  when  he  saw  how  the 
color  came  and  went  upon  her  cheek,  he  fancied  that  R arose 
from  the  delicacy  she  would  naturally  feel  m talking  with  him 
of  his  runawayywife.  He  was  glad  he  had  -troduce^  he 
subiect  and  she  could  continue  it  or  not  as  she  chose.  Mar  c , 
hardly  ’knew  how  to  reply,  for  though  she  longed  to  hear 
what  he  had  to  say  of  Mrs.  Raymond,  she  scarcely  dared  trust 

'*$!£ SSSS,  she  ventured  to.say:  A.i«  to.d  « 

that  it  was  once  your  wife’s.  She  is  dead,  isn  t she. 

Frederic  started,  and  walking  off  a few  paces,  replied 
“Marian  dead ! not  that  I know  of  1 Did  you  ever  hear  that 
she  was?”  and  he  came  back  to  Marian,  looking  at  her  sc 
earnestly  that  she  colored  deeply,  as  she  replied  i. 

“Mr.  Gordon  told  me  something  of  her ; and  I had  the  in 

PreShe°didhno7know  how  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  she  wa 
triad  to  hear  a little,  uncertain  step  upon  the  stairs,  as  that  wa 
an  excuse  for  her  to  break  off  abruptly,  and  go  to  Alice,  wh 


MARIAN  GREY 


195 


;ame  down  in  quest  of  her,  and  expressed  much  surprise  that 
>he  should  arise  so  early  and  dress  so  quietly. 

“Mrs.  Jones  used  to  make  such  a noise  coughing  and 
jneezing,”  she  said,  “that  she  always  awoke  me,  while  Isabel 
lever  got  up  till  breakfast  was  ready,  and  sometimes  not  then 
vhen  we  were  in  Kentucky.  Negroes  were  made  to  wait  on 
ler,  she  said.  She’ll  be  coming  over  here  to  call  and  see  how 
fou  look.  I heard  her  asking  Mrs.  Russell  last  week  if  you 
vere  pretty,  and  she  said — ” 

“Never  mind  what  she  said,”  suggested  Marian;  adding, 
aughingly:  “I  have  heard  of  Miss  Huntington  before.  Will 
Gordon  told  me  of  her,  and  Ben,  too.  He  saw  her  in  Ken- 
ucky,  you  know;  so  you  see,  I am  tolerably  well  posted  in 
four  family  affairs”;  and  she  turned  toward  Frederic,  who 
vas  about  to  answer,  when  Alice,  who  had  climbed  into  a 
Fair,  and  was  standing  with  her  arm  around  the  young  man’s 
leek,  chimed  in : 

“If  Mr.  Gordon  told  you  that  Frederic  liked  her  it  isn’t  so, 
ior  he  don’t;  do  you,  Frederic?” 

“I  like  all  the  ladies,”  was  the  reply;  and  as  the  breakfast 
)ell  then  rang,  the  conversation  ceased,  and  they  entered  the 
louse  together,  Alice  holding  fast  to  Marian’s  hand,  and 
lancing  along  like  a joyous  bird. 

“You  seem  very  happy  this  morning,”  said  Frederic,  smil- 
ng  down  upon  the  happy  child. 

“I  am,”  she  replied.  “I’m  ’most  as  happy  as  I should  be  if 
ve  had  found  Marian  yesterday.  Wouldn’t  it  be  splendid  if 
his  were  really  Marian;  and  wouldn’t  you  be  glad?” 

^ Frederic  Raymond  did  not  say  yes — he  did  not  say  any- 
hing;  but  as  he  looked  at  the  figure  in  white  presiding  a 
;econd  time  so  gracefully  at  his  table,  he  fancied  that  it  would 
lot  be  a hard  matter  for  any  man  to  be  glad  if  Marian  Grey 
were  his  wife.  Breakfast  being  over,  Alice  assumed  the  re- 
•esponsibility  of  showing  her  teacher  the  place. 

“You  were  here  once,  I know,”  she  said,  “and  left  me  those 
lowers,  but  you  hadn’t  time  then  to  see  half.  There’s  a tree 
lown  in  the  garden,  where  Frederic’s  name  is  cut  in  the  bark, 
md  Marian  Lindsey’s,  too.  You  must  see  that”;  and  she  led 
ler  off  to  the  spot  where  John  had  seen  her  crying  the  day 
)efore.  “I  ain’t  going  to  study  a bit  for  ever  so  long.  Fred- 
eric says  I needn’t,”  said  Alice.  “I’m  going  to  have  a right 
lice  time  with  you.”  And  Marian  was  not  sorry,  for  nothing 
eould  please  her  better  than  rambling  with  Alice  over  what 
vas  once  her  home. 

Very  rapidly  the  first  few  days  passed  away,  and  ere  a 


196 


MARIAN  GREY 


week  had  gone  by,  Marian  understood  tolerably  well  the  place 
Marian  Lindsey  occupied  in  her  husband’s  affections,  and  she 
needed  not  the  letter  received  from  William  Gordon  to  tell  her 
Sat  the  Frederic  Raymond  of  today  was  not  the  same  from 
whose Presence  she  had  once  fled  with  a breaking  heart. 

Alice  talked  a great  deal  about  the  lost  Marian,  and  one  day 
hef teacher  asked : “Did  Mr.  Raymond  never  hear  from  her . 

^Yes  and  that’s  the  mystery.  One  cold  March  night  when 
Isabel  was  dressing  for  a party  and  was  just  as  c™*s  as  ® e 
could  be,  there  came  to  him  a letter  from  Sarah  Green,  say- 
ing she  was  dead  and  buried  with  canker-rash.  ? 

“Dead!”  exclaimed  Marian,  starting  quickly.  When? 

W^‘ Tn  New  York,”  answered  Alice;  and  Marian  listened 
breathlessly  to  the  story  of  her  supposed  decease,  wondering, 
as  Frederic  had  often  done,  whence  the  letter  came,  and  why 

14  “R1  must1  have  been  a plan  of  Ben’s  to  see  what  he  would 
do  ” she  thought ; and  she  listened  again,  with  burning  cheeks 
and  beating  heart,  while  Alice  told  of  Frederic  s grief  when 

he  read  that  she  was  dead.  , . 

“I  know  he  cried,”  said  Alice,  “for  there  were  tears  on  hi 
face  and  he  sat  so  still,  and  held  me  so  close  to  him  that  F 
could  hear  his  heart  thump  so  hard,”  and  she  illustrated  it  y 
striking  her  tiny  fist  upon  the  table.  , . . , , 

Then  she  told  how  some  time  after  she  had  interrupte 
Frederic  in  the  parlor,  just  as  he  was  asking  exis  ! 

wife,  and  had  almost  convinced  him  again  of  Marians  exist 

^“Blessed  Alice,”  said  Marian  involuntarily.  You  have 
been  Miss  Lindsey’s  good  angel,  and  kept  her  husband  from 

couldn’t  help  it,”  answered  Alice.  “I  ’most  knew  sh^ 
was  alive  • and  I was  so  glad  when  he  started  for  New  York. 
[ was  sure  he’d  find  her;  and  he  did.  She  took  care  of .him  a 
few  days  and  his  voice  sounded  so  low  and  sad  when  he  told 
me  of  her,  and  how  she  left  him  when  Isabel  came. 
brother  Ben— the  nice  man  who  gave  me  the  bracelet  tele- 
graphed for  her  to  go;  and  you  would  have  supposed  she  wa. 
crazy — she  flew  around  so,  ordering  the  negroes,  and  knock 
ing  Dud  down  flat,  because  he  couldn  t run  fast  enough  to  & 
out  of  her  way.  That  made  Aunt  Hetty  his  grandmother 
mad  and  she  yellowed  Isabel’s  collar  that  she  was  ironing.  I 
1 hadn’t  been  blind  I should  have  cried  myself  so,  those  dread 


MARIAN  GREY 


197 


ful  days  when  we  expected  to  hear  Frederic  was  dead,  for 
next  to  Marian  I love  him  the  best.  He’s  real  good  to  me 
now;  and  when  I asked  him  once  what  made  him  pet  me  so 
much  more  than  he  used  to,  he  said : ‘Because  our  dear,  lost 

Marian  loved  you,  and  you  loved  her/  ” 

“Did  he  say  that  ? Did  he  call  her  his  ‘dear,  lost  Marian’  ?” 
and  the  eyes  of  the  speaker  sparkled  with  delight,  while  across 
her  mind  there  flitted  the  half-formed  resolution  that  before 
the  sun  had  set  Frederic  Raymond  should  know  the  whole. 

Ere  Alice  could  answer  this  question,  there  was  a loud  ring 
at  the  door,  and  a servant  brought  to  Miss  Grey,  Isabel  Hunt- 
ington’s card. 

“I  knew  she’d  call,”  said  Alice.  “She  wants  to  see  how  you 
look;  but  I don’t  care,  for  Frederic  thinks  you’re  a heap  the 
handsomest.  I asked  him  last  night  after  you  quit  playing, 
and  had  left  the  room.” 

The  knowledge  that  Frederic  Raymond  preferred  her  face 
to  that  of  Isabel,  rendered  Marian  far  more  self-possessed 
than  she  would  otherwise  have  been,  as  she  went  down  to  meet 
her  visitor,  whose  call  was  prompted  from  mere  curiosity,  and 
not  from  any  friendliness  she  felt  toward  Marian  Grey. 

They  had  met  before,  but  there  was  no  token  of  recognition 
between  them  now,  and  as  strangers  they  greeted  each  other, 
Marian’s  hand  trembling  slightly  as  she  offered  it  to  Isabel— 
for  she  knew  that  this  was  not  their  first  meeting.  Coldly,  in- 
quisitively, and  almost  impudently,  the  haughty  Isabel  scruti- 
nized the  graceful  creature,  mentally  acknowledging  that  she 
was  beautiful,  and  hating  her  for  it.  With  a great  effort 
Marian  concealed  her  agitation,  and  answered  carelessly  the 
first  few  commonplace  remarks  addressed  to  her,  as  to  how 
she  liked  Riverside,  and  if  this  was  her  first  visit  there. 

“No,”  she  answered  to  this  last  question,  “I  came  here  once 
with  Ben,  who,  you  remember,  was  once  at  Redstone  Hall.” 

> “I  could  not  well  forget  him.  His  odd  Yankee  ways  fur- 
nished gossip  for  many  a day  among  the  negroes.”  And 
Isabel  tossed  her  head  scornfully,  as  if  Ben  Burt  were  a 
creature  far  beneath  her  notice. 

After  a little,  she  spoke  of  Mr.  Raymond,  asking  Marian, 
finally,  what  she  thought  of  him,  and  saying  she  supposed  she 
knew  he  was  a married  man. 

“I  know  he  has  been  married,  but  is  there  any  certainty 
that  his  wife  is  still  living?”  asked  Marian,  for  the  sake  of 
bearing  her  visitor’s  remarks. 

“Any  certainty!  Of  course  there  is,”  said  Isabel,  ex- 
periencing at  once  a pang  of  jealousy  lest  the  humble  Marian 


198 


MARIAN  GREY 


Grey  had  dared  to  think  of  Frederic  as  a widower,  and  hence 
a marriageable  man.  “Of  course  she’s  living,  though,  I must 
say,  he  takes  no  great  pains  to  find  her.  He  did  look  for  her 
a little,  I believe,  after  he  was  sick  in  New  York;  but  he  did 
it  more  to  divert  his  mind  from  a very  mortifying  disappoint- 
ment than  from  any  affection  he  felt  for  her,  and  it  was  this 
which  prompted  him  to  go  to  New  York  at  all. 

“What  disappointment?”  Marian  asked  faintly,  and  affect- 
ing to  be  embarrassed,  Isabel  replied : f 

“It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  say  what  the  nature  ot 
it  was,  and  I referred  to  it  thoughtlessly.  Pray  forget  it,  Miss 
Grey”-  and  she  turned  the  leaves  of  a handsomely  bound 
volume  lying  on  the  table  with  well-feigned  modesty. 

Marian  understood  her  at  once,  and  she  was  glad  that  Isabel 
was  too  intent  upon  an  engraving  to  observe  her  agitation. 
Notwithstanding  what  Alice  said,  Frederic  had  orfered  him- 
self to  Isabel,  and  her  refusal  had  sent  him  to  New  York, 
where  he  hoped  to  forget  his  mortification,  and  where  sick- 
ness  had  overtaken  him.  In  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  Isabel 
had  come  to  him,  and  the  words  of  affection  which  she  had 
heard  her  speak  to  Frederic  were  prompted  by  pity,  rather 
than  love,  as  she  then  supposed.  And  after  Isabel  had  left 
him,  he  had  looked  for  her  merely  by  way  of  excitement,  and 
not  because  he  cared  to  find  her.  Such  were  the  thoughts 
which  flashed  upon  Marian’s  mind,  and  destroyed  at  once  her 
half-formed  resolution  of  telling  Frederic  that  night.  She 
did  not  know  Isabel,  and  she  could  not  understand  why  she 
should  be  guilty  of  a falsehood  to  her — a perfect  stranger. 

Frederic  had  returned  from  the  city  earlier  than  was  his 
custom,  for  he  usually  spent  the  entire  day;  but  there  was 
something  now  to  draw  him  home  besides  the  blind  girl,  and 
he  was  conscious  of  quickening  his  footsteps  as  he  drew  near* 
his  house,  and  of  watching  eagerly  for  the  flutter  of  a mourn-, 
ing  robe,  or  the  sight  of  a sunny  face,  which,  he  knew,  would 
smile  a welcome. 

He  heard  her  voice  in  the  parlor,  and  ere  he  was  aware 
of  it  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  Isabel.  Narrowly  Marian 
watched  him,  marveling  somewhat  at  his  Perfect  self-posses- 
sion • for  Isabel  was  to  him  an  object  of  such  indifference  that 
he  experienced  far  less  emotion  in  meeting  her  than  in  speak- 
ing to  Marian  Grey,  and  asking  if  she  had  been  lonely. 

“You  men  are  so  vain,”  said  Isabel  with  a toss  of  her  head, 
“and  think  we  miss  you  so  much.  Now,  FU  venture  to  say 
Miss  Grey  has  not  thought  of  you  in  all  day.  Why  should 
she?” 


MARIAN  GREY 


199 


“Why  shouldn’t  she?”  asked  Frederic,  giving  to  Marian  a 
smile  which  sent  the  hot  blood  tingling  to  her  finger  tips. 

“Why  shouldn’t  she!”  returned  Isabel,  “just  as  though  we 
girls  ever  think  of  married  men.  By  the  way,  have  you  heard 
anything  definite  from  Mrs.  Raymond,  since  she  left  you  so 
suddenly  in  New  York,  or  have  you  given  up  the  search?” 

Marian  pitied  Frederic  then,  he  turned  so  white;  and  she 
almost  hated  Isabel,  as  she  saw  the  malicious  triumph  in  her 
eye.  Breathlessly,  too,  she  awaited  the  answer,  which  was: 

“I  shall  never  abandon  the  search  until  I find  her,  or  know 
certainly  that  she  is  dead.  I went  to  the  place  where  she  used 
to  live,  not  long  ago.” 

“Indeed ! What  did  you  learn  ?”  and  a part  of  Isabel’s  as- 
surance left  her,  for  she  felt  that  this  searching  for  his  wife 
was  a reality  with  him;  while  Marian’s  heart  grew  hopeful 
and  warm  again,  as  she  listened  to  Frederic  Raymond  telling 
Isabel  Huntington  of  that  dear  old  room  which  had  been  her 
home  so  long. 

“I  can’t  conceive  what  made  her  run  away,”  said  Isabel, 
fixing  her  large,  glittering  eyes  upon  Frederic,  who  coolly  re- 
plied, “I  can,”  and  then  turning  to  Marian  he  abruptly  com- 
menced a conversation  upon  an  entirely  different  subject. 

Biting  her  lip  with  vexation,  Isabel  rose  to  go,  saying  she 
should  expect  to  see  Miss  Grey  at  her  own  house,  and  that  she 
hoped  she  would  sometime  bring  Mr.  Raymond  with  her. 

“You  need  not  be  afraid  to  come,”  she  continued,  addressing 
herself  to  him,  “for  everybody  knows  you  have  a wife,  conse- 
quently your  coming  will  create  no  scandal  concerning  your- 
self and  mother !”  and  with  a hateful  laugh  she  swept 
haughtily  down  the  walk. 

From  this  time  forth  Isabel  was  a frequent  visitor  at  River- 
side, where  she  always  managed  to  say  something  which  seri- 
ously affected  Marian’s  peace  of  mind  and  led  her  to  distrust 
the  man  who  was  beginning  to  feel  far  more  interest  in  the 
Marian  found  than  in  the  Marian  lost.  This  the  quick-sighted 
Isabel  saw,  and,  while  her  bosom  rankled  with  envy  toward 
her  rival,  she  exulted  in  the  thought  that  love  her  as  he  might 
he  dared  not  tell  her  of  his  love,  for  the  barrier  a living  wife 
had  built  between  the  two.  Though  professing  the  utmost  re- 
gard for  Miss  Grey  she  did  not  hesitate  to  speak  against  her 
when  an  opportunity  occurred,  but  her  shafts  fell  harmlessly, 
for  where  Marian  was  known  she  was  esteemed,  and  the  wily 
woman  gave  up  the  contest  at  last  and  waited  anxiously  to  see 
the  end. 

Toward  the  last  of  October,  Ben,  who  was  now  a petty 


200 


MARIAN  GREY 


grocer  in  a New  England  village,  came  to  Riverside  for  the 
first  time  since  Marian’s  residence  there.  Never  before  had 
he  appeared  so  happy,  and  his  honest  face  was  all  aglow  with 
his  delight  at  seeing  Marian  at  last  where  she  belonged. 

“You  fit  in  like  an  odd  scissor,”  he  said  to  her  when  they 
were  alone.  “Ain’t  it  ’most  time  to  tell? 

“Not  yet,”  returned  Marian.  “I  would  rather  wait  until  I 
am  back  at  Redstone  Hall.  We  are  going  there  next  month, 
and  then,  too,  I wish  I knew  how  much  of  Isabel’s  insinua- 
tions to  believe.”  , , 

“Isabel  be  hanged,”  said  Ben.  “She  lied,  I know,  and 
mebby  that  letter  was  some  of  her  devilment.” 

Marian  replied  by  telling  him  of  the  letter  from  Sarah 
Green,  and  asking  if  he  could  explain  it.  But  it  was  all  a 
mystery  to  him,  and  he  puzzled  his  brain  with  it  for  a long 
time,  deciding  at  last  that  it  might  have  come  from  some  of 
her  Kentucky  acquaintances  who  chanced  to  be  in  New  York 
and  sent  it  just  for  mischief.  . 

“But  they  overshot  the  mark,”  said  he.  “You  am  t dead  by 


a great  sight.”  ...  t . . 

Ben  went  away  happy  over  his  visit,  and  the  others  were 
soon  busy  in  joyful  anticipations  of  a speedy  removal  to 
Kentucky,  for  Frederic  was  going  earlier  this  season  than 
usual,  and  the  tenth  of  November  was  appointed  for  them  to 
start.  If  they  met  with  no  delays  they  would  reach  Redstone 
Hall*  on  the  anniversary  of  Marian’s  bridal,  and  to  her  it 
seemed  meet  that  on  this  day  of  all  others  she  should  return 
again  to  her  old  home,  and  she  wondered  if  Frederic,  too, 
would  think  of  it  or  send  one  feeling  of  regret  after  his  miss- 
ing bride.  He  did  remember  it,  for  the  November  days  were 
always  fraught  with  memories  of  the  past.  This  year,  how- 
ever, there  was  a difference,  for  though  he  thought  much  of 
Marian  Lindsey,  it  was  not  as  he  had  thought  of  her  before, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a most  unaccountable  sensation  of 
satisfaction  in  knowing  that  even  if  she  could  not  go  with  him 
to  Kentucky,  her  place  would  be  tolerably  well  filled  by 
Marian  Grey! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


REDSTONE  HALL 

News  had  been  received  at  Redstone  Hall,  that  the  family 
would  be  there  on  the  thirteenth ; but  Frederic's  coming  home 
was  a common  occurrence  now,  and  did  not  create  as  great  a 
sensation  among  his  servants  as  it  once  had  done.  Still  it  was 
an  event  of  considerable  importance,  particularly  as  he  was 
to  bring  with  him  a new  governess,  who,  judging  from  his 
apparent  anxiety  to  have  everything  in  order,  was  a person  of 
more  distinction  than  the  prosy  Mrs.  Jones,  or  even  the  bril- 
liant Isabel.  Old  Dinah  accordingly  worked  herself  up  to  her 
usual  pitch  of  excitement,  and  then,  long  before  it  was  time, 
started  off  her  spouse,  who  was  to  meet  his  master  at  Big 
Spring  station,  and  who  waited  there  impatiently  at  least  an 
hour  ere  the  whistle  and  smoke  in  the  distance  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  train. 

“We  are  here  at  last,"  said  Frederic,  when  they  stopped 
before  the  depot;  and  he  touched  the  arm  of  Marian,  who  sat 
leaning  against  a window,  her  head  bent  down,  and  her 
thoughts  in  such  a wild  tumult  that  she  scarcely  comprehended 
what  she  was  doing  or  where  she  was. 

During  the  entire  journey  she  had  labored  under  the  high- 
est excitement,  which  manifested  itself  sometimes  in  snatches 
of  merry  songs,  sometimes  in  laughter  almost  hysterical,  and 
again,  when  no  one  saw  her,  in  floods  of  tears,  which  failed  to 
cool  her  feverish  impatience.  It  seemed  to  her  she  could  not 
wait,  and  she  counted  every  milestone,  while  her  breath  came 
faster  and  faster  as  she  knew  they  were  almost  there.  With 
a shudder  she  glanced  at  the  clump  of  trees  under  whose 
shadow  she  had  hidden  five  years  before,  and  those  who  no- 
ticed her  face  as  she  passed  out  marveled  at  its  deathly  pallor. 

Marian  did  not  try  to  conceal  her  delight,  and  Frederic 
watched  her  wonderingly,  as  with  glowing  cheeks  and  beam- 
ing  eyes  she  looked  first  from  one  window  and  then  from  the 
other,  the  color  deepening  on  her  face  and  the  pallor  in- 
creasing about  her  mouth,  as  waymark  after  waymark  was 
passed  and  recognized. 

"You  seem  very  much  excited,"  he  said  to  her  at  last;  and, 
assuming  as  calm  a manner  as  possible,  she  replied: 

For  years  back  the  one  cherished  object  of  my  life  was  to 
Marian  Grey  201 


202 


MARIAN  GREY 


visit  Kentucky ; and  now  that  I am  really  here,  I am  so  glad ! 
oh,  so  glad!”  and  Frederic  could  see  the  gladness  shining  m 
her  eyes,  and  making  her  so  wondrously  beautiful  to  look 
upon  that  he  was  sorry  when  the  twilight  shadows  began  to 
fall,  and  partially  obscured  his  vision. 

“There  is  the  house,”  he  said,  pointing  to  the  chimneys,  just 
discernible  above  the  trees. 

But  Marian  had  seen  them  first,  and  when  as  they  turned  a 
corner  the  entire  building  came  in  view,  she  sank  back  upon 
the  cushion,  dizzy  and  sick  with  the  thoughts  which  came 
crowding  so  fast  upon  her.  The  day  had  been  soft  and  balmy, 
and  mingled  with  the  gathering  darkness  was  the  yellow,  hazy 
light  the  sun  of  the  Indian  summer  often  leaves  upon  the 
hills.  The  early  mist  lay  white  upon  the  river,  while  here  and 
there  a shower  of  leaves  came  rustling  down  from  the  tall 
trees  which  grew  in  such  profusion  around  the  old  stone 
house.  And  Marian  saw  everything— heard  everything— and 
when  the  horses’  hoofs  struck  upon  the  bridge,  where  once  they 
fancied  she  had  stood  and  plunged  into  eternity,  an  icy  chill 
ran  through  her  frame,  depriving  her  of  the  power  to  speak  or 
move.  Through  the  dim  twilight  she  saw  the  dusky  forms 
gathered  expectantly  around  the  cabin  doors — saw  the  full 
rounded  figure  of  Dinah  on  the  piazza— saw  the  vine- 
wreathed  pillar  where  five  years  ago  that  very  night  she  had 
leaned  with  a breaking  heart  and  wept  her  passionate  adieu  to 
the  man  who,  sitting  opposite  to  her  now,  little  dreamed  of 
what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  In  a distant  hemp  field  she 
heard  the  song  some  negroes  sang  returning  from  their  labor, 
and  as  she  listened  to  the  plaintive  music,  her  tears  began  to 
flow,  it  seemed  so  natural — so  much  like  the  olden  time. 

Suddenly  as  they  drew  nearer  and  the  song  of  the  negroes 
ceased,  the  stillness  was  broken  by  the  deafening  yell  which 
Bruno,  from  his  cage,  sent  up.  His  voice  had  been  the  last  to 
bid  the  runaway  good-by,  and  it  was  the  first  to  welcome  her 
back  again.  With  a stifled  sob  of  joy  too  deep  for  utterance  she 
drew  her  veil  still  closer  over  her  face,  and  when  at  last  they 
stopped  and  the  light  from  the  hall  shone  out  upon  her,  she 
sat  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  motionless  and  still. 

“Come,  Miss  Grey,”  said  Frederic,  when  Alice  had  been 
safely  deposited  and  was  folded  to  Dinah’s  bosom,  “come, 
Miss  Grey,  are  you  sleeping  ?”  and  he  touched  the  hand  which 
lay  cold  and  lifeless  upon  her  lap.  “She  has  fainted,”  he 
cried.  “The  journey  and  excitement  have  overtaxed  her 
strength,”  and,  taking  her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  a 
little  child,  he  bore  her  into  the  house  and  up  to  her  own 


MARIAN  GREY 


203 


chamber,  for  he  rightly  guessed  that  she  would  rather  be  there 
when  she  returned  to  consciousness. 

Laying  her  upon  the  lounge  he  removed  her  bonnet  and  veil, 
and  then  kneeling  beside  her,  looked  wistfully  into  her  face 
which  in  its  helplessness  seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever. 

“Has  she  come  to  yet  ?’’  asked  the  puffing  Dinah,  appearing 
at  the  door.  “It's  narves  what  ailed  her,  I reckon/' 

Frederic  knew  that  his  services  were  no  longer  needed,  and, 
after  glancing  about  the  room  and  seeing  that  everything  was 
right,  he  went  downstairs,  leaving  Marian  to  the  care  of 
Dinah,  who,  as  her  patient  began  to  show  signs  of  returning 
consciousness,  undressed  her  as  soon  as  possible  and  placed 
her  in  the  bed,  herself  sitting  by  and  bathing  her  face  and 
hands  in  camphor  and  cologne.  The  fainting  fit  had  passed 
away,  but  it  was  succeeded  by  a feeling  of  such  delicious 
languor  that  for  a long  time  Marian  lay  perfectly  still,  think- 
ing how  nice  it  was  to  be  again  in  her  old  room  with  Dinah 
sitting  by,  and  once  as  the  hard,  black  hand  rested  on  her 
forehead,  she  took  it  between  her  own,  murmuring  involun- 
tarily, “Dear  Aunt  Dinah,  I thank  you  so  much." 

“Blessed  lamb,"  whispered  the  old  lady,  “they  told  her  my 
name,  I ’spect.  Tears  like  she’s  nigher  to  me  than  strangers 
mostly  is,"  and  she  smoothed  lovingly  the  bright  hair  floating 
over  the  pillow. 

Twice  that  evening  there  came  up  the  stairs  a cautious  step 
which  stopped  always  at  that  door,  and  Dinah,  as  often  as  she 
answered  the  gentle  knock,  came  back  to  Marian  and  said, 
“It’s  marster  axin’  is  you  any  wus." 

“Tell  him  I am  only  tired,  not  sick,"  Marian  would  say,  and, 
turning  on  her  pillow,  she  wept  great  tears  of  joy  to  think 
that  Frederic  should  thus  care  for  her. 

The  rosy  dawn  was  just  stealing  into  the  room,  next  morn- 
ing, when  Marian  awoke  with  a vague,  uncertain  feeling  as  to 
where  she  was,  or  what  had  happened.  Ere  long,  however, 
she  remembered  it  all ; and,  stepping  upon  the  floor,  she  glided 
to  the  window,  to  feast  her  eyes  once  more  upon  her  home. 
Before  her  lay  the  garden,  and,  though  the  November  frosts 
had  marred  its  summer  glory,  it  was  still  beautiful  to  her; 
and,  hastily  dressing  herself,  she  went  forth  to  visit  her  olden 
haunts,  strolling  leisurely  on  until  she  reached  a little  summer 
house  which  had  been  built  since  she  was  there.  Over  the 
door  were  some  pencil  marks,  in  Frederic’s  handwriting;  and, 
though  the  rains  had  partly  washed  the  letters  away,  there 
were  still  enough  remaining  for  her  to  know  that  “Marian 
Lindsey"  had  been  written  there. 


204 


MARIAN  GREY 


“He  has  sometimes  thought  of  me,”  she  said ; and  she  was 
about  entering  the  arbor,  when  there  arose  upon  the  air  a 
terrific  yell,  which,  had  she  been  an  intruder,  would  have  sent 
her  flying  from  the  spot.  But  she  did  not  even  tremble,  and 
she  waited  fearlessly  the  approach  of  the  huge  creature, 
which,  bristling  with  rage,  came  tearing  down  the  graveled 
walk,  his  eyeballs  glowing  like  coals  of  fire,  and  his  head  low- 
ered as  if  ready  for  attack. 

Bruno  was  still  on  guard,  and  when,  in  the  distance,  he 
caught  a sight  of  Marian,  he  started  with  a lionlike  bound, 
which  soon  brought  him  near  to  the  brave  girl,  who  calmly 
watched  his  coming,  and,  when  he  was  close  upon  her,  said  to 
him: 

“Good  old  Bruno!  Don't  you  know  me,  Bruno? 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  voice,  the  fire  left  the  mastiff's 
eye,  for  he,  too,  caught  the  tone  which  had  once  startled  Alice, 
and  which  puzzled  Frederic  every  day;  still,  he  was  not  quite 
assured,  and  he  came  rushing  on,  while  she  continued  speak- 
ing gently  to  him.  With  a bound,  half  playful,  half  ferocious, 
he  sprang  upon  her,  and,  catching  him  around  the  neck,  she 
passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  his  shaggy  mane,  saying  to 
him  softly: 

“I  am  Marian,  Bruno!  Do  you  know  me?” 

Then,  indeed,  he  answered  her — not  with  a human  tongue, 
it  is  true ; but  she'  understood  his  language  well,  and  by  the 
low,  peculiar  cry  of  joy  he  gave  as  he  crouched^  upon  the 
ground,  she  knew  that  she  was  recognized.  Of  all  who  had 
loved  her  at  Redstone  Hall,  none  remembered  her  save  the 
noble  dog,  who,  now  as  a lamb,  licked  her  face,  her  hair,  hej 
hands,  her  dress,  her  feet ; while  all  the  time  his  body  quiverec 
with  the  intense  delight  he  could  not  speak.  . | 

At  last  as  she  knelt  down  beside  him,  and  laid  her  cheer 
against  his  neck,  he  bent  his  head,  and  gave  forth  a deep,  pro| 
longed  howl,  which  was  answered  at  a little  distance  by  a crj 
of  horror,  and,  turning  quickly,  Marian  saw  Frederic  hasten 
in g toward  the  spot,  his  face  pale  as  ashes,  and  his  whole  ap 
pearance  indicative  of  alarm.  He  had  been  aroused  fron 
sleep  by  the  yell  which  Bruno  gave  when  he  first  caught  sigh 
of  Marian,  and  ere  he  had  time  to  think  what  it  could  be 
Alice  knocked  at  his  door,  exclaiming : 

“Oh,  Frederic,  Miss  Grey,  I am  sure,  has  gone  into  til 
garden,  and  Bruno  is  not  yet  secured.  I heard  him  bark  jus 
like  he  did  last  year  when  he  mangled  black  Andy  so.  WFa 
if  he  should  tear  Miss  Grey?" 

Frederic  waited  for  no  more,  but,  dressing  himself  quickly 


MARIAN  GREY 


205 


he  hastened  out,  sickening  with  fear,  as  he  came  upon  the 
fresh  tracks  the  dog  had  made  when  going  down  the  walk. 
He  saw  Marian’s  dress,  and  through  the  lattice  he  caught  a 
sight  of  Bruno. 

“He  has  her  down!  He  is  drinking  her  life-blood!”  he 
thought;  and  for  an  instant  the  pulsations  of  his  heart  stood 
still,  nor  did  they  resume  their  wonted  beat  even  after  he 
saw  the  attitude  of  Marian  Grey,  and  his  terrible  watchdog, 
Bruno.  & 

< • he  began,  for  he  could  not  be  formal  then. 

xManan!  leave  him,  I entreat  you.  He  is  cruelly  savage 
with  strangers.” 

But,  I have  tamed  him,  you  see,”  she  answered,  winding 
her  arms  still  closer  around  his  neck,  while  he  licked  again 
her  face  and  hair. 


Wonderingly  Frederic  looked  on,  and  all  the  while  there 
came  to  him  no  thought  that  the  two  had  met  before— that  the 
hand  patting  so  fondly  Bruno’s  head  had  fed  him  many  a time 
—and  that  ’mid  all  the  changes  which  five  years  had  made,  the 
sagacious  animal  had  recognized  his  mistress  and  playmate, 
Marian  Lindsey. 

It  must  be  that  you  can  win  all  hearts,”  he  said,  watching 
her  admiringly,  and  marveling  at  her  secret  power. 

Shaking  back  her  sunny  curls,  and  glancing  upward  into 
nis^  i ace,  Marian  answered  involuntarily : 

“No,  not  all.  There  is  one  I would  have  given  worlds  to 
wm,  but  it  cast  me  off,  just  when  I needed  comfort  the  most.” 
She  spoke  impulsively,  and  as  she  spoke  there  arose  within 
her  the  wish  that  he,  like  Bruno,  might  know  her  then  and 
there  But  he  did  not.  He  only  remembered  what  Will  Gor- 
don had  said  of  her  hopeless  attachment,  and  her  apparent 
confession  of  the  same  to  him  smote  heavily  upon  his  heart, 
though  why  he,  a married  man,  should  care  he  could  not  tell. 
tie  didn  t really  care,  he  thought ; he  only  pitied  her,  and  by 
way, of  encouragement  he  said:  -Even  that  may  yet  be 

won  , and  while  he  said  it,  there  came  over  him  a sensation 
° rearmess,  as  if  the  winning  of  that  heart  would  neces- 
sarily take  from  him  something  which  was  becoming  more 
and  more  essential  to  his  happiness. 

Their  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  Josh,  who  was 
runos  keeper,  and  had  come  to  chain  him  for  the  day. 
«wan+jvnie^  ]lmrat  0!}ce’  though  he  had  changed  from  the 
Qh^rt’  ithlck  Iatd  of  twelve  to  the  taller  youth  of  seventeen: 
and  when,  as  he  saw  her  position  with  Bruno,  he  exclaimed: 
Goo-goo-good  Lord!”  she  turned  her  beaming  face  toward 


206 


MARIAN  GREY 


“I  have  a secret  for  charm- 


him  and  answered  laughingly : 

involuntarily  Josh’s  old  cloth  cap  came  off,  while  over  his 
countenance  there  flitted  an  expression  as  if  that  voice  were 
liot^ntirely  strange  to  him.  Touching  his  master  s arm,  and 
pointing  to  the  kneeling  maiden,  he  stammered  out. 

“Ha-ha-hain’t  I s-s-een  her  afore?  , , 

“I  think  not,”  answered  Frederic,  and  with  a doubt. ul  shake 
of  his  head,  Josh  attempted  to  lead  Bruno  away. 

But  Bruno  would  not  move,  and  he  clung  so  obstinately  to 
Marian  that  she  arose,  and,  patting  his  side,  said  p ay- 

*U‘‘I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  with  him,  I guess.  Lead  the  way, 

k°With  eyes  protruding  like  saucers,  Josh  turned  back,  fol- 
lowed by  Marian  and  Bruno,  the  latter  of  whom  offered  no  re- 
sistance7when  his  mistress  bade  him  enter  his  kennel  though 
he  made  wondrous  efforts  to  escape  when  he  saw  that  she 

W^ffn.e theT name*  o f the  Lord,”  exclaimed  Hetty,  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  to  be  sure  she  was  right,  if  tharant 
the  young  lady  shettin’  up  the  dog.  I never  knowed  the  like  o 

Then  as  Marian  came  toward  the  kitchen,  she  continued . 
“ ’Pears  like  I’ve  seen  her  somewhar.” 

“Ye-ye-yes,”  chimed  in  Josh,  who^had  walked  faster  than 

Marian.  “Who-o-oo  is  she,  Hetty?” 

Marian  by  this  time  had  reached  the  door,  where  she  stood 
smiling  pleasantly  upon  the  blacks  but  no.  danng  .0 , ca i I them 


{JWSS3S  Si  Dinah,  who  courtesied  low,  and  coming 

forward  asked:  “Is  you  better  this  mornin  ? , 

“Yes,  quite  well,  thank  you.  Are  these  your  companions . . 
said  Marian,  anxious  for  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  her  old, 

^ '“Yes,  honey,”  answered  Dinah.  “This  is  Hetty,  and  this 

1S  She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Hetty,  who  had  been 
earnestly  scanning  Marian’s  features,  grasped  her  dress,  say- 

intr : “Whar  was  you  born?” 

“jest  like  them  Higginses,”  muttered  Dinah.  In  course. 
Miss  Grey  don’t  want  to  be  twitted  with  bein  a Yankee  the 

^But^Hetty  had  no  intentions  of  casting  reflections  upon  the 
place  of  Marian’s  birth.  Like  josh  she  had  detected  some- 
thing familiar  in  the  young  girl’s  face,  and  twice  she  had 


MARIAN  GREY 


207 


wept  her  hand  across  her  eyes  to  clear  away  the  mist  and  see 
f possible  what  it  was  which  puzzled  her  so  much. 

“I  was  born  a great  many  miles  from  here/’  said  Marian, 
ind  ere  Hetty  could  reply,  Josh,  whose  gaze  had  all  the  time 
>een  riveted  upon  her,  stuttered  out,  “Sh-sh-she  is-s-s-s  like 
M-m-m-Miss  Marian.” 

Yes,  this  was  the  likeness  they  had  seen,  but  Marian  would 
ather  the  first  recognition  should  come  from  another  source, 
.nd  she  hastened  to  reply:  “Oh,  Mrs.  Raymond,  you  mean. 

Uice  noticed  it  when  I first  went  to  Riverside.  You  suppose 
'our  young  mistress  dead,  do  you  not?” 

Instantly  Dinah’s  woolen  apron  was  called  into  use,  while 
he  said:  “Yes,  poor  dear  lamb,  if  thar’s  any  truth  in  them 

icripter  sayin’s,  she’s  a burnin’  and  a shining  light  in  de  king- 
lorn  come,”  and  the  old  negress  launched  forth  into  a long 
ulogy  in  the  midst  of  which  Frederic  appeared  in  quest  of 
darian. 

“I  am  listening  to  praises  of  your  wife,”  she  said,  and  there 
v^as  a mischievous  triumph  in  her  eye  as  she  saw  how  his 
orehead  flushed,  for  he  was  beginning  to  be  slightly  annoyed 
vhen  she,  as  she  often  had  done,  alluded  to  his  wife. 

Why  need  she  thrust  that  memory  continually  upon  him? 
Vas  it  not  enough  for  him  to  know  that  somewhere  in  the 
vorld  was  a wife,  and  that  he  would  rather  hear  anyone  else 
peak  of  her  than  the  bright-haired  Marian  Grey? 

“Dinah  can  be  very  eloquent  at  times,”  he  said,  “but  come 
vdth  me  to  Alice.  She  has  been  sadly  frightened  on  your  ac- 
ount,”  and  he  led  the  way  to  the  piazza,  where  the  blind  girl 
vas  waiting  for  them. 

Breakfast  being  over,  Marian  and  Alice  sought  the  parlor, 
yhere,  instead  of  the  old-fashioned  instrument  which  the  for- 
mer remembered  as  standing  there,  she  found  a new  and 
eauti fully  carved  piano. 

“Frederic  ordered  this  on  purpose  to  please  you,”  whispered 
sdice.  “He  said  it  was  a shame  for  you  to  play  on  the  other 
attling  thing.” 

This  was  sufficient  to  call  out  Marian’s  wildest  strains,  and, 
s a matter  of  course,  the  entire  band  of  servants  gathered 
bout  the  door  to  listen,  just  as  they  once  had  done  when  the 
erformer  was  Isabel.  As  was  quite  natural,  they  yielded  their 
reference  to  the  last  comer,  old  Hetty  acknowledging  that 
ven  “Miss  Beatrice  couldn’t  beat  that.” 

It  would  seem  that  Marian  Grey  was  destined  to  take  all 
earts  by  storm,  for  ere  the  day  was  done  her  virtues  had  been 
iscussed  in  the  kitchen  and  by  the  cabin  fire,  while  even  the 


208 


MARIAN  GREY 


gallant  Tosh  at  his  work  in  the  hemp  field,  attempted  a song, 
Sch  hi  meant  to  be  laudatory  of  her  charms,  but  as  he  was 
somewhat  lacking  in  poetical  talent,  his  music  ran  finally  into 
the  well-known  ballad  of  “Mary  Ann,”  which  suited  his  pur- 

P°Meantime,  Marian,  stealing  away  from  Alice,  quietly  ex- 
plored every  nook  and  corner  of  the  house  opening  first  the 
little  box  where  she  once  had  kept  her  mother  s hair.  It  was 
there  just  as  she  had  left  it,  and,  kissing  it  reverently,  s 
olaced  it  by  the  side  of  her  silken  locks.  . . 

She  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Frederic  came  , 
annearing  somewhat  surprised  to  find  her  there,  sitting  in  h s 
chair  as  if  sh“  had  a perfect  right  to  do  so.  At  first  she  was 
too  much  confused  to  apologize,  but  she  managed  at  last  to 

Sa“This  cozy  room  attracted  me,  and  I took  the  liberty  to 
enter  You  have  a very  fine  library,  I think;  some  of  the 

down  opposite  to  her  Frederic  talked  with  her  about  them 
until  she  chanced  to  spy  a portrait,  put  away  behind  the  pon- 
rlernm  sofa  with  its  face  turned  to  the  wall. 

“■ Whose  is  it  ?”  she  asked,  directing  Frederic  s attention  to 
it.  uWhose  is  it,  and  why  is  it  hidden  there.  Marian 

.aArjri  ss  &£**£? *. 

ss  ™ — j 

^Thi?i  Jt" waTspoken  bitterly,  and  Marian  felt  the  hot  bloo; 

riS“Igneve^eevenetold  Alice  of  it,”  he  continued,  “but  put  i 

aWHe  glanced  JfcJ  private  dh^er-sfdid  Marian;  but  sh 
was  too  intent  upon  seeing  a portrait  which  could  look  wors 
tVian  the  daguerreotype  to  heed  aught  else,  and  stie  said  en 
Mr".  Ra?mo„d,  please  lessee  «,  w». 


urlv  * un.  ivir.  ivayniuim,  , 

I lived  in  New  York  a long  time,  you  know,  and  per 

X nvcu  ill  o cnme  nine 


^rnn  ? 1 ved  in  INeW  xoriv  cl  lung  - 7 i* 

haps’  I may  have  met  her,  or  even  know  her  under  some  othe 
* £?_V  Mav  I see  it?”  and  she  was  advancing  toward  th 
sofa,  when  Frederic  seized  both  her  hands,  and  holing 
in  his,  said,  half  hesitatingly,  half  mournfully.  Miss  U 
you  must  excuse  me  for  refusing  your  request.  Poor  Maria 


MARIAN  GREY 


209 


vas  far  from  being  handsome,  nay,  I sometimes  thought  her 
)ositively  ugly.  She  is  certainly  so  in  the  portrait,  and  a 
rreature  as  highly  gifted  with  beauty  as  you,  might  laugh  at 
ler  plain  features,  and  if  you  did — ” He  paused  a moment, 
md  Marian's  eyelashes  fell  beneath  his  steady  gaze.  “And  if 
rou  did,"  he  continued,  “I  never  could  like  you  again,  for  she 
vas  my  wife,  and  as  such  must  be  respected !” 

Marian  could  not  tell  why  it  was,  but  Frederic's  words  and 
nanner  affected  her  painfully.  She  half  feared  she  had  of- 
fended him  by  her  eagerness  to  see  the  portrait,  while  mingled 
vith  this  was  a strange  feeling  of  pity  for  poor,  plain  Marian 
^indsey,  as  she  probably  looked  upon  the  canvas,  and  a deep 
•espect  for  Frederic,  who  would,  if  possible,  protect  her  from 
wen  the  semblance  of  insult.  Her  heart  was  already  full, 
md,  releasing  her  hands  from  Frederic's,  she  resumed  her 
eat,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  the  writing  desk,  burst  into 
ears,  while  Frederic  paced  the  room,  wondering  what,  under 
he  circumstances,  he  was  expected  to  do.  He  knew  just  how 
o soothe  Alice,  but  Marian  Grey  was  a different  individual, 
ie  could  not  take  her  in  his  lap  and  kiss  away  the  tears,  but 
le  could  at  least  speak  to  her-;  and  he  did  at  last,  laying  his 
land  as  near  the  little  white  one  grasping  the  table  edge  as  he 
lared,  and  saying  very  gently: 

“If  I spoke  very  harshly  to  you,  Miss  Grey,  I am  sorry— 
re ry  sorry;  I really  did  not  intend  to  make  you  cry.  I only 
:elt  that  I could  not  bear  to  hear  you,  of  all  others,  laugh  at 
ny  poor  Marian,  and  so  refused  your  request.  Will  you  for- 
give me  ?" 

And  by  some  chance,  as  he  looked  another  way,  his  hand  did 
:ouch  hers,  and  held  it,  too ! He  did  not  think  that  an  insult 
;o  the  portrait  at  all,  nor  yet  of  the  supposed  original ; for 
:here  was  something  in  the  way  the  snowy  fingers  twined 
;hemselves  around  his,  which  drove  all  other  ideas  from  his 
mind,  and  for  one  brief  instant  he  was  supremely  happy. 

From  the  first  he  had  thought  of  Marian  Grey  as  a sweet, 
peautiful  young  creature,  whom  some  man  would  one  day  de- 
ight  to  call  his  own;  but  the  possibility  of  loving  her  himself 
aad  never  occurred  to  him  until  now,  when,  like  a flash  of 
ightning,  the  conviction  burst  upon  him  that,  spite  of  Marian 
Lindsey — spite  of  his  marriage  vow — spite  of  the  humble 
Drigin  which  would  once  have  shocked  his  pride — and  spite  of 
everything,  Marian  Grey  had  won  a place  in  his  heart  from 
which  he  must  dislodge  her.  But,  how?  He  could  not  send 
her  away,  for  she  seemed  a part  of  himself,  and  he  could  not 
[live  without  her;  but  he  would  stifle  his  newborn  love,  he  said, 


210 


MARIAN  GREY 


and  as  the  best  means  of  doing  so,  he  would  talk  to  her  often 
of  his  wife  as  a person  who  certainly  had  an  existence,  and 
would  some  day  come  back  to  him ; so,  when  Marian  replied : 
“I  feared  you  were  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Raymond ; I would 
not  have  asked  to  see  the  portrait  had  I supposed  you  really 
cared,”  he  drew  his  chair  at  a respectable  distance  and  said: 
“I  cannot  explain  the  matter  to  you,  but  if  you  knew  the  whole 
sad  story  of  my  marriage,  and  the  circumstances  which  led  to 
it,  you  would  not  wonder  that  I am  somewhat  sensitive  upon 
the  subject.  I used  to  think  beauty  the  principal  thing  I 
should  require  in  a wife,  but  poor  Marian  had  none  of  that, 
and  were  you  to  see  the  wretched  likeness,  you  would  receive 
altogether  too  unfavorable  an  impression  of  her;  for,  notwith- 
standing her  plain  face,  she  was  far  too  good  for  me.” 

“Do  you  really  think  so  ?”  was  Marian’s  eager  exclamation, 
while  close  behind  it  was  the  secret  struggling  hard  to  escape, 
but  she  forced  it  back,  until  such  time  as  she  should  be  con- 
vinced that  Frederic  loved  her  as  Marian  Grey,  and  would 
hail  with  delight  the  news  that  she  was  indeed  his  wife. 

He  seemed  surprised  at  her  question,  but  he  answered,  un- 
hesitatingly : 

“Yes ; far  too  good  for  me.”  . 

“And  do  you  really  wish  to  find  her  ?”  was  Marian  s next 
question,  which  brought  a flush  to  Frederic’s  face,  and  caused 
him  to  hesitate  a little  ere  he  replied. 

Yesterday  he  would  have  said  yes  at  once,  but  since  coming 
into  that  library  he  had  discovered  that  the  finding  of  his  wife 
would  be  less  desirable  than  before.  But  it  should  not  be  so. 
He  would  crush  every  thought  or  feeling  which  detracted  in 
the  least  from  his  late  interest  in  Marian  Lindsey,  and  with  a 
great  effort  he  said:  \ 

“I  really  wish  to  find  her”;  adding,  as  he  saw  a peculiar 
expression  flit  over  Marian’s  face:  “Wouldn’t  you,  too,  be 

better  pleased  if  Redstone  Hall  had  a mistress?”  > 

“Yes,  provided  that  mistress  were  your  wife,  Marian  Lind- 
sey,” was  the  ready  answer ; and,  looking  into  her  face,  Fred- 
eric was  conscious  of  an  uneasy  sensation,  for  Miss  Greys 
words  would  indicate  that  the  presence  of  his  wife  would  give 
her  real  pleasure.  ...  , , - 

Of  course,  then,  she  did  not  care  for  him,  as  he  cared  tor 
her;  and  why  should  she?  He  asked  himself  this  question 
many  a time  after  the  chair  opposite  him  was  vacant,  and  she 
had  left  him  there  alone.  Why  should  she,  when  she  came  tc 
him  with  the  knowledge  that  lie  was  already  bound  to  an- 
other?  She  might  not  have  liked  him  perhaps  had  he  beer 


MARIAN  GREY 


211 


free;  though,  in  that  case,  he  could  have  won  her  love,  and 
compelled  her  to  forget  the  man  who  did  not  care  for  her. 
Taking  the  high-backed  chair  she  had  just  vacated,  he  rested 
his  elbow  upon  the  table,  and  tried  to  fancy  that  Marian  Lind- 
sey had  never  crossed  his  path,  and  Marian  Grey  had  never 
loved  another.  It  was  a pleasant  picture  he  drew  of  himself 
were  Marian  Grey  his  wife,  and  his  heart  fairly  bounded  as  he 
■ bought  of  her  stealing  to  his  side,  and  placing  upon  his  arm 
:hose  little  soft  white  hands  of  her,  while  her  blue  eyes  looked 
into  his  own,  and  her  rosebud  lips  called  him  “Husband!” 
and,  as  he  thought,  it  seemed  to  him  more  and  more  that  it 
must  one  day  be  so.  She  would  be  his  at  last,  and  the  sun  of 
lis  domestic  bliss  would  shine  upon  him  all  the  brighter  for 
:he  dreary  darkness  which  had  overshadowed  him  so  long. 
From  this  dream  of  happiness  there  came  ere  long  a waking, 
and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands  he  moaned  aloud:  “It  can- 

iot  be,  and  the  hardest  part  of  all  to  bear  is  the  wretched 
■bought  that  but  for  my  dastardly,  unmanly  act,  it  might, 
perhaps,  have  been — but  now,  never ! never  ! Oh,  Marian 
Grey!  Marian  Grey!  I would  that  we  had  never  met!” 

“Frederic,  didn’t  you  hear  me  coming  ? I made  a heap  of 
loise,”  said  a voice  close  to  his  side,  and  Alice’s  arm  was 
dirown  across  his  neck. 

She  had  heard  all  he  was  saying,  but  she  did  not  compre- 
hend it  until  he  muttered  the  name  of  Marian  Grey,  and  then 
:he  truth  flashed  upon  her. 

“Poor  Frederic,”  she  said  soothingly,  “I  pity  you.  so  much, 
for  though  it  is  wicked,  I am  sure  you  cannot  help  it.” . 

“Help  what?”  he  asked,  rather  impatiently,  for  this  one 
secret  he  hoped  to  bury  from  the  whole  world,  but  the  blind 
girl  had  discovered  it  readily,  and  she  answered  unhesi- 
:atingly : 

“Can’t  help  loving  Marian  Grey.  I’ve  been  fearful  you 
would,”  she  continued,  as  he  made  no  reply.  “I  did.  not  see 
how  you  could  well  help  it,  either,  she  is  so  beautiful  and 
good,  and  every  night  I pray  that  if  our  own  Marian  is  really 
dead,  God  will  let  11s  know.” 

This  was  an  entire  change  in  Alice.  Hitherto  she  had 
pleaded  a living  Marian — now  she  suggested  one  deceased, 
but  Frederic  repelled  the  thought  at  once. 

Marian  was  not  dead,  he  said,  and  though  he  admired  . Miss 
Grey,  he  had  no  right  to  love  her.  He  didn’t  intend  to,  either, 
and  if  Alice  had  discovered  anything,  he  trusted  she  would 
forget  it. 

And  this  was  all  the  satisfaction  he  would  give  the  little 


212 


MARIAN  GREY 


girl,  who,  feeling  that  he  would  rather  be  alone,  turned  away 
leaving  him  again  with  his  unhappy  thoughts. 

That  night  he  joined  the  young  girls  in  the  parlor  and  com- 
pelled himself  to  listen  while  Marian  made  the  old  walls  echc 
with  her  ringing,  merry  music.  But  he  would  not  look  at  her 
nor  watch  her  snowy  fingers  sweeping  over  the  keys,  lest  the) 
should  make  worse  havoc  with  his  heart-strings  than  they  hac 
already  done.  At  an  early  hour  he  sought  his  chamber,  where 
the  livelong  night  he  fought  manfully  with  the  love  which 
now  that  he  acknowledged  its  existence,  grew  rapidly  in  in- 
tensity and  strength.  It  was  not  like  the  love  he  felt  foi 
Isabel — it  was  deeper,  purer,  more  absorbing,  and  what  wa: 
stranger  far  than  all,  he  could  not  feel  that  it  was  wicked,  am 
he  trembled  when  he  thought  how  hardened  he  had  become. 

The  next  day,  which  was  the  Sabbath,  he  determined  to  set 
as  little  of  Marian  as  possible,  but  when  at  the  breakfast  tabk 
she  asked  him  in  her  usual  frank,  open-hearted  way  to  go  witl 
her  to  church,  he  could  not  refuse,  and  he  went,  feeling  a glov 
of  pride  at  the  sensation  he  knew  she  was  creating,  and  won- 
dering why  she  should  be  so  excited. 

“I  cannot  keep  the  secret  much  longer,”  Marian  thought,  a: 
she  looked  upon  the  familiar  faces  of  her  friends,  and  longer 
to  hear  them  call  her  by  her  real  name.  “I  will  at  least  tell  Alicr 
who  I am,  and  if  she  can  convince  me  that  Frederic  would  b* 
glad,  I will  perhaps  explain  to  him.”  . # ' 

When  church  was  out,  Mrs.  Rivers,  who  still  lived  at  he: 
father’s  pressed  forward  for  an  introduction,  and  after  it  wa: 
over,  whispered  a few  words  to  Frederic,  who  replied:  “No 

in  the  least,”  so  decidedly  that  Marian  heard  him,  and  won, 
dered  what  Agnes’  remark  could  have  been.  She  was  ncjj 
long  left  in  doubt,  for  as  they  were  riding  home,  Frederi: 
turned  to  her  and  said : “Mrs.  Rivers  thinks  you  look  like  nr 
wife.” 

Marian’s  cheeks  were  scarlet,  as  she  replied: 

“Josh  and  Hetty  thought  so,  too,  and  it  is  possible  there  ma] 
be  a resemblance.” 

“Not  the  slightest,”  returned  Frederic,  half  vexed  that  any 
one  should  presume  to  liken  the  beautiful  girl  at  his  side  t< 
one  as  plain  as  he  had  always  considered  Marian  Lindsey  t< 
be. 

Leaning  back  in  the  carriage,  he  relapsed  into  a thoughtfu 
mood,  which  was  interrupted  once  by  Marian’s  asking  if  he  be 
lieved  he  should  know  his  wife  in  case  he  met  her  unex 
pectedly. 

“Know  her?  Yes — from  all  the  world!”  was  the  hast) 


MARIAN  GREY 


213 


mswer;  and,  wrapping  his  shawl  still  closer  about  him,  Fred- 
eric did  not  speak  again  until  they  stopped  at  their  own  door. 

That  night,  as  Marian  sat  with  Alice  in  their  chamber,  she 
;aid  to  the  little  girl : 

“If  you  could  have  any  wish  gratified  which  you  chose  to 
nake,  what  would  it  be?” 

For  an  instant  Alice  hesitated— then  her  eyes  filled  with 
ears,  and,  winding  her  arms  around  her  teacher's  neck,  she 
vhispered : 

“At  first  I thought  I'd  rather  have  my  sight — but  only  tor 
i moment — and  then  I wished,  if  Marian  were  not  dead,  she 
vould  come  back  to  us,  for  I'm  afraid  Frederic  is  getting  bad 
igain,  though  he  cannot  help  it,  I'm  sure.” 

“What  do  you  mean?”  Marian  asked,  and  Alice  replied 
“Don't  you  know  ? Can't  you  guess  ? Don’t  you  hear  it  in 
lis  voice  when  he  speaks  to  you  ?” 

Marian  made  no  response,  and  Alice  continued : 

“Frederic  seems  determined  to  love  everybody  better  than 
>ur  Marian,  and,  though  I love  you  more  than  I can  tell,  I 
vant  her  to  come  back  so  much.” 

“And  if  you  knew  she  were  coming,  when  would  you  rather 
t should  be?”  asked  Marian,  and  asked  replied: 

“Now — tonight;  but  as  that  is  impossible,  I’d  be  satisfied 
vith  Christmas.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  I’d  rather  it  would  be 
hen;  I should  call  her  our  Christmas  Gift,  and  it  would  be 
he  dearest,  sweetest  one  that  I could  have.” 

“Darling  Alice,”  thought  Marian,  “your  wish  shall  be  grati- 


And,  kissing  the  blind  girl  affectionately,  she  resolved  that 
m the  coming  Christmas,  one  at  least  of  the  inmates  of  Red- 
stone Hall  should  know  that  Marian  Grey  was  only  another 
lame  for  the  runaway  Marian  Lindsey. 

One  by  one  the  bright  November  days  went  by  and  the  hazy 
Indian  summer  light  faded  from  the  Kentucky  hills,  where 
iow  the  December  sun  was  shining  cold  and  clear.  And  as 
:he  weeks  passed  away,  there  hung  over  Redstone  Hall  a 
lark,  portentous  cloud,  and  they  who  had  waited  so  eagerly 
.he  coming  of  the  holidays  trembled  lest  the  merry  Christmas 
song  should  prove  a funeral  dirge  for  the  pet  and  darling  of 
:hem  all.  Alice  was  dying,  so  the  physician  said,  while  Dinah, 
too,  had  prophesied  that  ere  the  New  Year  came  the  eyes 
which  never  in  this  world  had  looked  upon  the  light  would  be 
opened  to  the  glories  of  the  better  land. 

For  many  weary  days  and  nights  the  fever  flame  had  burned 
in  the  young  girl’s  veins,  but  it  had  left  her  now,  and  like  a 


214 


MARIAN  GREY 


fragile  lily  she  lay  among  her  pillows,  talking  of  heaven  and 
the  grave  as  something  very  near  to  her.  Noiselessly  Marian 
trod  across  the  floor,  holding  back  her  breath  and  speaking  m 
soft  whispers,  lest  she  should  disturb  the  little  sufferer  whose 
side  she  never  for  a moment  left  except  to  take  the  rest  she 
absolutely  needed.  Frederic,  too,  often  shared  her  vigils,  feel- 
ing almost  as  anxious  for  one  as  for  the  other.  Both  were 
very  dear  to  him,  and  Marian,  as  she  witnessed  his  tender 
care  of  Alice,  and  his  anxiety  for  herself  lest  her  strength 
should  be  overtaxed,  felt  more  and  more  that  he  was  worthy 
of  her  love.  Alice,  too,  appreciated  his  goodness,  as  she  had 
never  done  before,  and  once  when  he  sat  alone  with  her,  and 
Marian  was  asleep,  she  passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  hei 
f ac^  and  said  * 

“Dear  Frederic,  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  that  I an 
sure  God  has  some  good  in  store  for  you.” 

Then  as  she  remembered  what  would  probably  be  the  great- 
est good  to  him,  she  continued : “I  know  what’s  in  your  heart 
and  I pity  you  so  much,  but  there  is  light  ahead,  I'm  sure 
I’ve  thought  strange  things,  and  dreamed  strange  dreams  smc< 
I lay  here  so  sick,  and  as  I once  was  certain  Marian  was  alive 
so  now  I’m  almost  certain  that  she’s  dead.” 

“Hush,  Alice,  hush,”  said  Frederic,  laying  his  head  upon  th< 
oillow  beside  her,  but  Alice  did  not  heed  him,  and  she  con 

*^“1  never  saw  her  in  this  world,  and  maybe  I shan’t  knov 
her  right  away,  though  next  to  mother,  I reckon,  she  11  be  th- 
first  to  welcome  me  to  heaven,  if  she’s  there,  and  I know  sh- 
or  we  should  have  heard  from  her.  I shall  tell  her  ot  he 


is 


old-  home,  Frederic— tell  her  how  we  mourned  for  her  whe: 
we  thought  that  she  was  dead.  I don’t  know  what  it  was  ths 
made  her  go  away,  but  I shall  tell  her  you  repented  of  the  acj 
and  how  you  looked  for  her  so  long,  and  that  if  you  had  foun 
her  you  would  have  loved  her  sure.  That  will  not  be  a li< 

will  it,  Frederic?”  , , ...  < 

“No,  darling,  no,”  was  the  faintly-spoken  answer,  and  Alic 

C°  “Them  when  I have  explained  all,  I’ll  steal  away  froi 
heaven,  just  long  enough  to  come  and  tell  you  she  is  then 
You’ll  be  in  the  library,  maybe,  and  I reckon  twill  be  darl 
though  if  you’d  any  rather,  I’ll  come  in  the  daytime,  ana  whe 
you  feel  there’s  somebody  near,  somebody  you  cant  see,  yo 
may  know  that  it  is  me  come  to  say  you  are  free  to  love  th 

0th  Don’t,  Alice,  don’t,”  said  Frederic,  for  it  made  his  heai 


MARIAN  GREY 


215 


deed  afresh  to  hear  her  talk  of  what  he  had  no  hope  would 

■ver  be.  . 

But  Alice's  faith  was  stronger,  and  to  Marian  Grey  she 
ometimes  talked  in  a similar  strain,  saying : “She  knew  she 

hould  meet  the  other  one  in  heaven/'  and  Marian,  while 
istening  to  her,  felt  that  she  must  undeceive  her.  “It  may 
Possibly  make  her  better,"  she  thought,  and  when,  at  last,  the 
Christmas  Eve  had  come,  and  it  was  her  turn  to  watch  that 
light,  she  determined  to  tell  her,  if  she  fancied  that  she . had 
trength  to  bear  it.  One  by  one  the  family  servants  retired, 
.nd  when  at  last  they  were  alone,  Marian  drew  her  chair  close 
o the  bed,  wondering  how  she  should  commence,  and  what 
ffect  it  would  have  upon  the  little  sufferer,  who  ere  long 
woke,  and  said  to  her : 

“I've  been  dreaming  of  Marian,  and  I thought  she  looked 
ike  you  do — but  she  don't,  of  course;  and  I wonder  how  I’ll 
now  her  from  my  mother,  for  she,  too,  was  young  when  she 
lied.  If  it  were  you,  Miss  Grey,  I could  tell  you  so  easily, 
or  I should  look  among  the  brightest  angels  there,  and  the 
►ne  who  sang  the  sweetest  song  and  had  the  fairest  face, 
Vould  certainly  be  Marian  Grey;  but  the  other  Marian — how 
hall  I know  her — think?" 

Leaning  forward  so  that  her  hot  cheek  touched  the  pale  one 
if  the  sick  girl,  Marian  said : 

“Wouldn't  you  know  her  by  her  voice?" 

“I’m  afraid  not,"  answered  Alice ; “I  thought  you  were  she 
t first  when  I heard  you  speak." 

“How  is  it  now,  darling ! — how  is  it  now  ?"  Marian  asked, 
n a voice  so  tremulous  that  Alice  started,  and  her  white  face 
lushed  as  she  replied:  “You  are  not  like  her  now,  except  at 
imes,  and  then — it’s  all  so  queer.  There's  a mystery  about 
tiu,  Miss  Grey — and  it  seems  sometimes  just  like  I didn’t 
:now  what  to  think — you  puzzle  me  so !" 

“Shall  I tell  you,  Alice?  Have  you  strength  to  hear  who 
.nd  what  I am  ?”  Marian  asked ; and  Alice  answered  eagerly : 

“Yes — tell  me — do !" 

“And  you'll  promise  not  to  faint,  nor  scream,  nor  reveal  it 
o anybody,  unless  I say  you  may?" 

Alice's  cheek  grew  paler,  and  her  eyes  a deeper  brown,  as 
he  said: 

“It  must  be  something  terrible  to  make  me  faint  or 
cream!" 

; “Not  terrible,  dearest,  but  strange !"  and  sitting  down 
ipon  the  bed,  Marian  wound  her  arm  around  the  little  girl. 

It  was  a hazardous  thing,  the  telling  that  secret  then,  but 


216 


MARIAN  GREY 


Marian  did  not  realize  what  she  was  doing,  and  in  as  calm  a 
voice  as  she  could  command,  she  began: 

“People  call  me  Marian  Grey,  but  that  is  not  my 
name!” 

“Not  Marian  Grey !”  and  the  brown  eyes  flashed  wonder- 
ingly.  “Who  are  you,  then;  Marian  what?”  . 

Marian  did  not  reply  to  this  question,  but  said  instead : “3 
had  seen  you  before  that  night  at  Riverside.” 

“Seen  me,  where?”  and  the  little  figure  trembled  with  ai 
indefinable  dread  of  the  shock  which  she  instinctively  fel 
was  awaiting  her.  # # # . 

“I  had  seen  you  many  times,”  said  Marian;  “and  that  u 
why  my  voice  was  familiar.  Put  your  hand  upon  my  fact 
again  and  maybe  you  will  know  it.” 

“I  can't,  I can't ! You  frighten  me  so !”  gasped  Alice;  ant 
Marian  continued: 

“I  must  have  changed  much  in  the  last  five  years,  for  the; 
who  used  to  know  me  have  never  suspected  that  I am  in  thei: 
midst  again— none  but  Bruno.  Do  you  remember  my  powe 
over  him?  Bruno  and  I were  playmates  together!” 

Marian  paused  and  gazed  earnestly  at  the  child,  who  la; 
panting  in  her  arms,  her  face  upturned  and  the  blind  eye 
fixed  upon  hers  with  an  intensity  she  had  never  before  seei 
equaled.  In  the  deep  stillness  of  the  room  she  could  hear  th 
loud  beating  of  Alice’s  heart,  and  see  the  bedclothes  rise  an 
fall  with  every  throb. 

“Alice,”  she  said  at  last,  “don't  you  know  me  now?  an 
in  her  voice  there  was  a world  of  yearning  tenderness  an 

love.  , . r 

“Yes,”  and  over  the  marble  face  there  shone  a smile  oi  a. 
most  seraphic  sweetness.  “You  are  Marian — my  Marian- 
Frederic's  Marian— Dinah's  Marian— all  of  us  Marian!”  an 
with  a low,  hysterical  cry  the  blind  girl  crept  close  to  tfc 
bosom  of  her  long-lost  friend. 

Stretching  out  her  feeble  arms  she  wound  them  aroup 
Marian’s  neck,  and  raising  herself  upon  her  elbow,  kissed  he 
lips,  her  cheek,  her  forehead,  her  hair,  whispering  all  the  time 
“Blessed  Marian— precious  Marian— beautiful  Marian— ot 
Marian— Frederic’s  and  mine,  and  everybody’s.  Oh,  I don 
want  to  go  to  heaven  now;  I’d  rather  stay  with  you.^  Ca 
him — call  Frederic,  quick,  and  tell  him!  Why  haven t yc 
told  him  before?  Ho,  Frederic,  come  here!”  and  tt 
feeble  voice,  raised  to  its  highest  pitch,  went  ringing  throug 
the  room  and  penetrated  even  to  the  adjoining  chambe 
where,  since  Alice's  illness,  Frederic  had  slept. 


MARIAN  GREY 


217 


“Alice,”  said  Marian,  “if  you  love  me,  you  will  not  tell  him 
, now.  I am  not  ready  yet.” 

“What  if  I should  die?”  Alice  asked,  and  Marian  replied: 

“You  won’t  die.  I almost  know  you  won’t.  Promise,  Alice, 
promise,”  she  continued,  as  she  heard  Frederic’s  step  in  the 
hall  without. 

“How  can  I — how  can  I ? It  will  choke  me  to  death !”  was 
Alice’s  answer,  and  the  next  moment  Frederic  had  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  door. 

“What  is  it,  Miss  Grey?”  he  asked.  “Didn’t  you  call?” 

“Alice  is  rather  excited,  that’s  all,”  said  Marian,  “and  you 
can  go  back.  We  do  not  wish  to  disturb  you.” 

“Frederic,”  came  in  a faint  whisper  from  the  bedside,  and 
knowing  that  further  remonstrance  was  useless,  Marian  stood 
like  a rock,  while  Frederic  advanced  toward  the  child,  who 
lay  with  her  head  thrown  back,  the  great  tears  rolling  down 
her  cheeks,  and  the  great  joy  of  what  she  had  heard,  shining 
out  all  over  her  little  face. 

“Did  you  want  me,  birdie?”  he  asked,  but  ere  he  had  ceased 
speaking,  Marian  was  at  his  side. 

Alice  knew  that  she  was  there,  and  she  pressed  both  hands 
upon  her  lips  to  force  back  the  secret  she  had  been  forbidden 
to  divulge. 

“Is  she  delirious?”  Frederic  asked,  and,  shaking  her  head, 
Alice  whispered:  “No,  no,  but  happy,  so  happy.  Oh,  Fred- 

eric, I don’t  want  to  die ! Must  I ? If  I take  a heap  of 
doctor’s  stuff,  will  I get  well,  think?” 

I “I  hope  so,”  said  Frederic,  his  suspicions  of  insanity  rapidly 
increasing. 

I “Give  me  your  hand,”  she  continued,  “and  yours,  too,  Miss 
| Grey.” 

Both  were  extended,  and,  joining  them  together,  she  said: 

' “Love  her,  Frederic.  Love  her  all  you  want  to.  You  may — 

I you  may.  It  isn’t  wicked.  Oh,  Marian,  Marian !” 

The  last  word  was  a whisper,  and  as  it  died  away,  Marian 
seized  Frederic’s  arm,  and  said,  beseechingly:  “Please,  leave 

the  room,  Mr.  Raymond.  You  see  she  is  excited,  and  I can 
quiet  her  best  alone.  Will  you  go?” 

The  brown  eyes  looked  reproachfully  at  her  and  entreat- 
ingly  at  him,  but  neither  heeded  the  expression,  and  with  a 
feeling  that  he  scarcely  understood  what  the  whole  proceed- 
ing meant,  or  why  he  had  been  called  in  if  he  must  be  so  sum- 
marily dismissed,  Frederic  went  out  reluctantly,  leaving 
Marian  alone  with  Alice. 

“Why  didn’t  you  let  me  tell  him?”  the  latter  asked,  and 


218 


MARIAN  GREY 


Marian  replied:  “I  shall  tell  him  by  and  by,  but  I am  not 

ready  yet,  and  you  must  not  betray  me.” 

‘Til  try,”  said  Alice,  “but  ’tis  so  hard,  I had  to  bite  my 
tongue  to  keep  the  words  from  coming.  Where  have  you 
been  ? Why  didn’t  you  come  to  us  before  ? What  makes  you 
be  Marian  Grey  so  long?  How  came  you  so  beautiful — so 
grand?”  Alice  asked,  all  in  the  same  breath. 

But  Marian  absolutely  refused  to  answer  a question  until 
she  had  become  quiet  and  been  refreshed  with  sleep. 

“All  in  good  time,  dearest,”  she  said;  “but  you  must  rest 
now.  You  are  wearing  out  too  fast,  and  you  know  you  do 
not  want  to  die.” 

This  was  the  right  chord  to  touch,  and  it  had  the  desired 
effect. 

“Let  me  ask  one  question,  and  say  one  thing,”  said  Alice, 
“and  I won’t  talk  another  word  till  morning.  When  you  are 
ready,  may  I tell  Frederic,  if  I ain’t  dead?” 

“Yes,  darling,”  was  the  ready  answer,  and  winding  her 
arms  around  Marian’s  neck,  the  blind  girl  continued : “Isn’t  it 
almost  morning?” 

“Yes,  dear.” 

“And  when  it  is,  won’t  it  be  Christmas  Day?” 

“Yes,  but  you  asked  three  questions  instead  of  one.” 

“I  know — I know ; but  what  I want  to  say,  is  this : I 

wished  my  Christmas  girt  might  be  Marian,  and  it  is.  Last 
year  it  was  a beautiful  little  pony,  but  you  are  worth  ten  hun- 
dred million  ponies.  Oh,  I’m  so  glad — so  glad,”  and  on  the 
childish  face  there  was  a look  of  perfect  happiness. 

Even  after  she  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  sleep,  her  lips 
continued  to  move,  and  Marian  could  hear  the  whispered 
words : “Our  own  Marian — our  blessed  Marian.” 

The  excitement  was  too  much  for  Alice,  and  when  next' 
morning  the  physician  came,  he  pronounced  her  worse  than 
she  had  been  the  previous  night. 

“But  I ain’t  going  to  die,”  said  Alice  resolutely;  “I  can’t 
die  now,”  and  it  was  this  very  determination  on  her  part 
which  did  more  to  save  her  life  than  all  the  doctor’s  drugs  or 
Dinah’s  wonderful  tears. 

For  many  days  she  seemed  hovering  between  life  and  death, 
while  Marian  never  for  a moment  left  her,  and  Alice  was 
more  quiet  when  she  was  sitting  by,  holding  her  feverish 
hand;  she  seemed  to  have  lost  her  desire  to  tell,  for  she  never 
made  any  attempt  so  to  do,  though  she  persisted  in  calling  her 
teacher  Marian,  and  a look  of  pain  always  flitted  over  her 
face  when  she  heard  her  addressed  as  Miss  Grey.  Sometimes 


MARIAN  GREY 


219 


he  would  start  up,  and,  winding  her  arms  around  her  neck, 
trould  whisper  in  her  ear : “Are  you  Marian  for  sure — our 

darian  I mean?” 

“Yes,  Marian  Lindsey  sure,”  would  be  the  answer,  and  the 
ittle  girl  would  fall  away  again  into  a half  unconscious  state, 

. smile  of  joy  wreathing  her  white  lips,  and  an  expression  of 
ierfect  peace  resting  on  her  face. 

At  last,  just  as  the  New  Year’s  morning  dawned,  she  awoke 
rom  a deep,  unbroken  sleep,  and  Marian  and  Frederic,  who 
/atched  beside  her,  knew  that  she  was  saved.  There  were 
.reeks  of  convalescence,  and  Dinah  often  wondered  at  Alice’s 
atience  in  staying  so  long  and  so  willingly  in  the  chamber 
/here  she  had  suffered  so  much.  But  to  Alice  that  sick-room 
/as  a second  paradise  and  Marian  the  bright  angel  whose 
resence  made  all  the  sunlight  of  her  life. 

Gradually,  as  she  could  bear  it,  Marian  told  her  everything 
/hich  had  come  to  her  since  she  left  Redstone  Hall,  and 
slice’s  eyes  grew  strangely  bright  when  she  heard  that  the 
iracelet  she  had  always  prized  so  much  was  made  from 
darian’s  hair,  and  that  Ben’s  visit  to  Kentucky,  was  all  a 
fan  of  his  to  see  if  Frederic  were  married.  Greatly  was  she 
hocked  when  she  heard  of  the  letter  which  had  almost  taken 
darian’s  life. 

“Frederic  never  did  that  cruel  thing,”  she  knew. 

“But  ’twas  in  his  handwriting,”  said  Marian,  “and  until  the 
nystery  is  cleared  away,  I cannot  quite  forgive  him.” 

For  a long  time  Alice  sat  absorbed  in  thought,  then  sud- 
lenly  starting  forward,  she  cried : “I  know,  Marian.  I know 
iow,  Isabel  did  it.  I’m  sure  she  did.  I remember  it  all  so 
•lain.” 

“Isabel?”  repeated  Marian;  “how  could  she?  What  do  you 
nean  ?” 

“Why,”  returned  Alice,  “you  say  you  sent  it  a few  weeks 
.fter  you  went  away,  and  I remember  so  well  Frederic’s  go- 
ng to  Lexington  one  day,  because  that  was  the  time  it  came 
o me  that  you  were  not  dead.  It  was  the  first  morning,  too, 
hat  Isabel  heard  my  lessons,  and  she  scolded  because  I didn’t 
emember  quick,  when  I was  thinking  all  the  time  of  you,  and 
ny  heart  was  aching  so.  For  some  reason,  I can’t  quite  tell 
vhat,  I showed  her  that  note  you  left  for  me.  You  remember 
t;  don’t  you?  It  read: 

“Darling  Alice!  Precious  Alice:  If  my  heart  were  not 
ilready  broken,  it  would  break  in  leaving  you.” 

“Yes,  yes;  I remember,”  said  Marian,  and  Alice  continued: 


220  MARIAN  GREY 


"She  said  your  handwriting  was  queer,  when  she  gave  m 
back  the  note.  That  evening,  Josh  came  from  Frankfort  witl 
a heap  of  letters  for  Frederic,  and  one  of  them  I know  wa 
from  you.  I was  standing  out  under  the  bog  maple  tree  think 
ing  of  you,  when  Isabel  came  and  asked  to  take  the  note  agair 
and  I let  her  have  it.  Ever  so  long  after,  I started  to  go  int< 
the  library,  for  I heard  somebody  rustling  papers,  and  I didn’ 
know  but  Dud  was  doing  mischief.  Just  as  I got  to  the  dooi 
I heard  a voice  like  Isabel’s,  only  it  sounded  scared  like,  ex 
claim:  Tt  is  from  her,  but  he  shall  never  see  it,  never’;  o 

something  like  that,  and  when  I called  to  her  she  wouldn’t  an 
swer  me  until  I got  close  to  her,  and  then  she  laughed  as  i 
she  was  choked,  and  said  she  was  trying  to  frighten  me 
Marian,  that  ‘her’  was  you,  and  the  'he’  was  Frederic.  Sh 
copied  his  writing,  and  sent  the  letter  back  because  she  wante 
Frederic  herself.” 

"Could  she  do  such  a thing?”  said  Marian,  more  to  hersel 
than  to  Alice,  who  replied: 

"She  can  do  anything ; for  Dinah  says  she’s  one  of  the 

I reckon  that  I’ll  skip  that  word  in  there,  because  it’s  almos 
swearing,  but  it  means  Satan’s  unaccountables,”  and  Alice’ 
voice  dropped  to  a whisper  at  what  she  fancied  to  be  profanit) 

Marian  could  understand  why  Isabel  should  do  such 
wicked  thing  even  better  than  Alice,  and  after  reflecting  upor 
it  for  a time,  she  accepted  it  as  a fact,  and  even  suggested  tb 
possibility  of  Isabel’s  having  been  the  author  of  the  lette 
from  Sarah  Green. 

"She  was  ! she  was  !”  cried  Alice,  starting  to  her  feet.  "It’ 
just  like  her — for  she  thought  Frederic  would  surely  want  t? 
marry  her  then.  I know  she  wrote  it,  and  managed  to  get  it  t 
New  York  somehow”;  and  as  is  often  the  case,  poor  Isab£ 
was  compelled  to  bear  more  than  her  share  of  the  fraud,  fq 
Marian,  too,  believed  that  she  had  been  in  some  way  impl: 
cated  with  the  letter  from  Sarah  Green. 

"And  I may  tell  Frederic  now — mayn’t  I?”  said  Alicf 
"Suppose  we  set  tomorrow,  when  he’s  in  the  library  among  hi 
letters.  He’ll  wonder  what  I’m  coming  in  there  for,  a 
wrapped  up  in  shawls.  But  he’ll  know  plenty  quick,  for  i 
will  be  just  like  me  to  tell  it  all  at  once,  and  he  will  be  so  glac 
Don’t  you  wish  it  was  tomorrow  now?” 

Marian  could  not  say  she  did,  for  she  had  hoped  for  a mor 
decisive  demonstration  of  affection  on  Frederic’s  part  ere  sh 
revealed  herself  to  him,  but  Alice  was  so  anxious,  and  ha 
waited  so  patiently,  that  she  at  last  consented,  and  when  a 
supper  she  met  Frederic  as  usual,  she  was  conscious  of 


MARIAN  GREY 


221 


different  feeling  toward  him  than  she  had  ever  experienced 
before.  He  seemed  unusually  dejected,  though  exceedingly 
kind  to  her,  talking  but  little,  it  is  true,  but  evincing,  in  various 
ways,  the  interest  he  felt  in  her,  and  ever  asking  her  to  sit 
with  him  a while  ere  returning  to  Alice's  chamber.  There 
was  evidently  something  on  his  mind  which  he  wished  to  say, 
but  whatever  it  might  have  been,  seven  o'clock  found  it  still 
unsaid,  and  as  Alice  retired  at  that  hour,  Marian  arose  to  go. 

“Must  you  leave  me?"  he  said,  rising,  too,  and  accompany- 
ing her  to  the  door.  “Yes,  you  must !"  and  Marian  little 
guessed  the  meaning  these  three  words  implied. 

She  only  felt  that  she  was  not  indifferent  to  him — that  the 
story  Alice  was  to  tell  him  on  the  morrow  would  be  received 
with  a quiet  kind  of  happiness  at  least — that  he  would  not  bid 
her  go  away  as  she  once  had  done  before — and  with  the  little 
blind  girl,  she,  too,  began  to  think  the  morrow  would  never 
come. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


TELLING  FREDERIC 

It  was  midnight,  and  from  the  windows  of  the  library  a 
Redstone  Hall  there  shone  a single  light,  its  dim  rays  fallin, 
upon  the  haggard  face  of  the  weary  man  who,  since  partin 
from  Marian  in  the  parlor,  had  sat  there  just  as  he  wa 
sitting  now — unmindful  of  the  lapse  of  time — unmindful  o 
everything  save  the  fierce  battle  he  was  waging  with  himsel: 
Hour  by  hour — day  by  day — week  by  week,  had  his  love  fo 
Marian  Grey  increased,  until  now  he  could  no  more  control  j 
than  he  could  stay  the  mighty  torrent  in  its  headlong  courst 
It  was  all  in  vain  that  he  kept  or  tried  to  keep  Marian  Line 
sey  continually  before  his  mind,  saying  to  himself : “She  is  m 
wife — she  is  alive,  and  I must  not  love  another/' 

He  did  not  care  for  Marian  Lindsey.  He  did  not  wish  t 
find  her  now — he  almost  hoped  he  never  should,  though  eve 
that  would  avail  him  nothing,  unless  he  knew  to  a certaint 
that  she  were  really  dead.  Perhaps  he  never  could  know,  an 
as  he  thought  of  the  long,  dreary  years  in  which  he  must  li\; 
on  with  that  terrible  uncertainty  forever  haunting  him,  h 
pressed  his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead  and  cried  aloud 
“My  punishment  is  greater  than  I can  bear.  Oh,  Maria 
Grey,  can  it  be  that  you,  who  might  have  been  the  angel  of  m 
life,  were  sent  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  that  other  Marian? 

He  knew  it  was  wicked,  this  intense,  absorbing  passion  fc 
Marian  Grey,  but  he  could  not  feel  it  so,  and  he  would  ha\ 
given  half  his  possessions  for  the  sake  of  abandoning  himse; 
for  one  brief  hour  to  this  love — for  the  sake  of  seeing  her  eye 
of  blue  meet  his  with  the  look  he  had  so  often  fancied  W 
giving  to  the  man  she  loved.  And  she  loved  him ! He  ws 
sure  of  it  1 He  saw  it  those  nights  when  he  watched  her  b 
Alice’s  bedside ; he  had  seen  it  since  in  the  sudden  flushing  c 
her  cheek  and  the  falling  of  her  eyes  when  he  approache< 
And  it  was  this  discovery  which  prompted  him  to  the  act  h 
meditated.  Not  both  of  them  could  stay  there,  himself  an 
Marian,  for  he  would  not  that  she  should  suffer  more  tha 
need  be.  She  had  recovered  from  her  first  and  early  love 
she  would  get  over  this,  and  if  she  were  only  happy,  it  didn 
matter  how  desolate  her  going  would  leave  him,  for  she  mu* 
Marian  Grey  222 


MARIAN  GREY 


223 


go,  he  said.  He  had  come  to  that  decision,  sitting  there  alone, 
and  it  had  wrung  great  drops  of  perspiration  from  his  brow 
and  moans  of  anguish  from  his  lips.  But  it  must  be — there 
was  no  alternative,  he  thought,  and  in  the  chair  where  Marian 
Lindsey  had  once  written  her  farewell,  he  wrote  to  Marian 
Lindsey’s  rival  that  Redstone  Hall  could  be  her  home  no 
longer. 

“Think  not  that  you  have  displeased  me,”  he  said,  “for  that 
is  not  why  I send  you  from  me.  Both  of  us  cannot  stay,  and 
though  for  Alice’s  sake  I would  gladly  keep  you  here,  it  must 
not  be.  I am  going  to  New  Orleans,  to  be  absent  for  three 
or  four  weeks,  and  shall  not  expect  to  find  you  here  on  my 
return.  You  will  need  money,  and  in  inclose  a check  for  a 
thousand  dollars.  Don’t  refuse  to  take  it,  for  I give  it  will- 
ingly, and  though  my  conduct  is  sadly  at  variance  with  my 
words,  you  must  believe  me  when  I say  that  in  all  the  world 
you  have  not  so  true  a friend  as 

“Frederic  Raymond.” 

Many  times  he  read  this  letter  over,  and  it  was  not  until 
long  after  midnight  that  he  sought  his  pillow,  only  to  toss 
from  side  to  side  with  feverish  unrest,  and  he  was  glad  when 
at  last  Josh  came  in  to  make  the  fire,  for  by  that  token  he 
knew  it  was  morning. 

“Tell  Dinah  I will  breakfast  in  my  room,”  he  said,  “and 
say  to  Phil  that  he  must  have  the  carriage  ready  early,  for  I 
am  going  to  New  Orleans,  and  he  will  carry  me  to  Frank- 
fort.” 

“Ye-e-s,  sir,”  was  Josh’s  answer,  as  he  departed  with  the 
message. 

“Marster  have  breakfast  in  his  room  and  a-goin^  to  New 
Orleans?  In  the  Lord’s  name  what’s  happened  to  him?”  ex- 
claimed Dinah,  and  when  Marian  came  down  to  her  solitary 
meal,  she  repeated  the  story  to  her,  asking  if  she  could  ex- 
plain it. 

“Marster’s  looked  desput  down  in  the  mouth  a long  time 
back,”  she  said,  “and  I was  kinder  hopin’  he  was  thinkin’  of 
jinin’  the  meetin’  and  being  baptized,  but  ’pears  ’tain’t  that. 
What  you  ’spect  ’tis  ?” 

Marian  could  not  tell ; neither  did  she  venture  a suggestion, 
so  fearful  was  she  that  Frederic’s  intended  departure  would 
interfere  with  the  plan  of  which  Alice  had  talked  incessantly 
since  daylight.  Hastily  finishing  her  breakfast,  she  hurried 
back  to  her  chamber,  whither  the  note  had  preceded  her. 


224 


MARIAN  GREY 


“Luce  brought  this  to  you  from  Frederic,”  said  Alice,  pass- 
ing her  the  letter,  “and  she  says  he  looks  like  he  was  crazy. 
Read  it  and  see  what  he  wants.” 

Marian  accordingly  tore  open  the  envelope  and  with 
blanched  cheek  and  quivering  lip  read  that  she  must  go  again 
from  Redstone  Hall,  and  worse  than  all,  there  was  no  tangible 
reason  assigned  for  the  cruel  mandate.  The  check  next  caught 
her  eye,  and  with  a proud,  haughty  look  upon  her  face,  she 
tore  it  in  fragments  and  scattered  them  upon  the  floor,  for  it 
seemed  an  idle  mockery  for  him  to  offer  what  was  already 
hers. 

“What  is  it,  Marian?”  asked  Alice,  and,  recovering  her 
composure,  Marian  read  to  her  what  Frederic  said,  while 
Alice’s  face  grew  white  as  hers  had  done  before. 

“You  go  away !”  she  exclaimed,  bounding  upon  the  floor 
and  feeling  for  the  warm  shawl  which  she  wore  when  sitting 
up.  “You  won’t  do  any  such  thing.  You’ve  as  much  right 
here  as  he  has,  and  I’m  going  this  minute  to  tell  him  so.” 

She  had  groped  her  way  to  the  door  and  was  just  opening 
it,  when  Marian  held  her  back,  saying: 

“You  must  not  go  out  undressed  and  barefooted  as  you  are. 
The  halls  are  cold.  Wait  here  while  I go  and  learn  the  reason 
of  this  sudden  freak.” 

“But  I want  so  much  to  tell  him  myself,”  said  Alice,  and, 
Marian  replied:  “So  you  shall;  I’ll  send  Dinah  up  to  dress, 

you,  and  then  I will  come  for  you  when  it  is  time.” 

This  pacified  Alice,  who  already  began  to  feel  faint  with 
her  exertions,  and  she  crept  back  to  bed,  while  Marian  de- 
scended the  stairs,  going  first  to  Dinah  as  she  had  promised, 
and  then  with  a beating  heart  turning  her  steps  toward  the 
library.  It  was  much  like  facing  the  wild  beast  in  his  lair, 
the  confronting  Frederic  in  his  present  savage  mood.  He  feltj 
himself  as  if  his  reason  were  overturned,  for  the  deliberate 
giving  up  of  Marian  Grey,  and  the  feeling  that  he  should 
probably  never  look  upon  her  face  again,  had  stirred,  as  it 
were,  the  very  depths  of  his  heart’s  blood,  and  in  a state  or 
mind  bordering  on  distraction,  he  was  making  the  necessary 
preparations  for  his  hasty  journey  when  a timid  knock  was 
heard  outside  the  door. 

“Who’s  there?  I’m  very  busy,”  was  his  loud,  imperious 
answer,  but  Marian  was  not  to  be  thus  baffled,  and  turning  the 
knob,  she  entered  without  further  ceremony,  recoiling  back- 
ward a pace  or  two  when  she  met  the  expression  of  Frederic’s 
eye. 

With  his  hands  full  of  papers,  which  he  was  thrusting  into 


MARIAN  GREY 


22  5 


iis  pocket,  his  hair  disordered  and  his  face  white  as  ashes,  he 
urned  toward  her,  saying:  “Why  are  you  here,  Miss  Grey? 
haven’t  you  caused  me  pain  enough  already?  Have  you  re- 
:eived  my  note?” 

“I  have,”  she  answered,  advancing  still  farther  into  the 
•oom.  “And  I have  come  to  ask  you  what  it  means.  You 
lave  no  right  to  dismiss  me  so  suddenly  without  an  explana- 
ion.  How  have  I offended  you?  You  must  tell  me.” 

“I  said  you  had  not  offended,”  he  replied,  “and  further  than 
hat  I can  give  you  no  explanation.” 

“I  shall  not  leave  your  house,  nor  yet  this  room  until  you 
lo,”  was  her  decided  answer,  and  with  the  air  of  one  who 
neant  what  she  said,  Marian  went  so  near  to  the  excited  man 
hat  he  could  have  touched  her  had  he  chosen. 

For  an  instant  the  two  stood  gazing  at  each  other,  Marian 
lever  wavering  for  an  instant,  while  over  Frederic's  face 
here  flitted  alternately  a look  of  wonder,  admiration,  and  per- 
ilexity.  Then  that  look  passed  away  and  was  succeeded  by 
m expression  of  the  deep,  unalterable  love  he  felt  for  the 
leautiful  girl  standing  so  fearlessly  before  him. 

“I  cannot  help  it,”  he  murmured  at  last,  and,  tottering  to 
he  door,  he  turned  the  key;  then  returning  to  Marian,  he 
:ompelled  her  to  sit  beside  him  upon  the  sofa  and  passing  his 
irm  around  her,  so  that  she  could  not  escape  him,  he  began: 
‘You  say  you  will  not  leave  the  room  until  you  know  why  I 
should  send  you  from  me.  Be  it  so,  then.  It  surely  cannot 
ie  wrong  for  me  to  tell  when  you  thus  tempt  me  to  the  act ; 
;o,  for  one  brief  half  hour,  you  are  mine — mine,  Marian,  and 
10  power  can  save  you  from  hearing  what  I have  to  say.” 
His  looks,  even  more  than  his  manner,  frightened  her,  and 
she  said,  imploringly : “Give  me  the  key,  Mr.  Raymond.  Un~ 
ock  the  door  and  I will  go  away  without  hearing  the  reason.” 
“I  frighten  you,  then,”  he  answered,  in  a gentler  tone,  draw- 
ng  her  nearer  to  him,  “and  yet,  Marian  Grey,  I would  sell  my 
ife  inch  by  inch  rather  than  harm  a hair  of  your  dear  head. 
3h,  Marian,  Marian,  I would  to  Heaven  you  had  never 
:rossed  my  path,  for  then  I should  not  have  known  what  it  is 
o love  as  madly,  as  hopelessly,  as  wickedly  as  I now  love  you. 
Yhat  made  you  come  to  me  in  all  your  bright,  girlish  beauty, 
)r  why  did  Heaven  suffer  me  to  love  you  as  I do?  My  pun- 
shment  was  before  as  great  as  I could  bear  and  now  I must 
uffer  this  anguish,  too.  Oh,  Marian  Grey,  Marian  Grey !” 
He  wound  his  arms  close  around  her,  and  she  could  feel  his 
:everish  breath  as  his  lips  almost  touched  her  burning  cheek, 
n the  words  “Marian  Grey,  Marian  Grey,”  there  was  a deep 


226 


MARIAN  GREY 


pathos,  as  if  all  the  loving  tenderness  of  his  nature  were  cen 
tered  upon  that  name,  and  it  brought  the  tears  in  torrern: 
from  her  eyes.  He  saw  them,  and,  wiping  them  away,  he  said : 

“The  hardest  part  of  all  to  me  is  the  knowledge  that  yoi 
must  suffer,  too.  Forgive  me  for  saying  it,  but  as  I know  tha 
I love  you,  so  by  similar  signs  I know  that  you  love  me.  I 

it  not  so  darling  ?”  , . . , ... 

Involuntarily  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  sobbing . 

“I  have  loved  you  so  long— so  long.” 

But  for  her  promise  to  Alice,  she  would  then  have  told  hir 
all  but  she  must  keep  her  word,  and  when  he  rejoined:  “I 

does,  indeed,  seem  long  since  that  night  you  came  to  River 
side,”  she  did  not  undeceive  him,  but  listened  while  he  con 
tinued:  “Bless  you  for  telling  me  of  your  love.  When  yo 

are  gone  it  will' be  a comfort  for  me  to  think  that  Maria 
Grev  once  loved  me.  I say  once,  for  you  must  overcom 
that  love.  You  must  tear  it  out  and  trample  it  beneath  you 
feet.  You  can  if  you  try.  You  are  not  as  hard,  as  callous  a 
I am.  My  heart  is  like  adamant,  and  though  I know  that  it  i 
wicked  to  love  you,  and  to  tell  you  of  my  love.  I cannot  hel 
it.  I am  a wreck,  and  when  I tell  you,  as  I must,  just  wh? 
a wretch  I am,  it  will  help  you  to  forget  me — to  hate  me, 
may  be.  You  have  heard  of  my  wife.  You  know  she  le: 
me  on  my  bridal  night,  and  I have  never  known  the  joys  c 
wedded  bliss— never  shall  know,  for  even  if  she  comes  bac 
to  me  now,  I cannot  live  with  her!” 

“Oh,  Frederic!”  And  again  the  hot  tears  trembled  throug 
the  hands  which  Marian  clasped  before  her  eyes. 

“Don’t  call  me  thus,”  said  Frederic  entreatingly,  as  he  r. 
moved  her  hands,  and  held  them  both  in  his.  “Don’t  sa 
Frederic,  for  though  it  thrills  me  with  strange  joy  to  he? 
you,  it  is  not  right.  Listen,  Marian,  while  I tell  you  why 
married  her  who  bears  my  name,  and  then  I’m  sure  you 
hate  me— nor  call  me  Frederic  again.  I have  never  told  b, 
one,  and  that  one,  William  Gordon.  I had  thought  never 
tell  it  again,  but  it  is  right  that  you  should  know.  Mari? 
Lindsey  was,  or  is,  the  heiress  of  Redstone  Hall.  All  n 
boasted  wealth  is  hers— every  cent  of  it  is  hers.  But  si 
didn’t  know  it,  for”— and  Frederic  voice  was  very  low  ar 
plaintive  now  as  he  told  to  Marian  Grey  how  Marian  Lmdse 
was  an  heiress— told  her  of  his  dead  parent’s  fraud— of  h 
desire  to  save  that  parent’s  name  from  disgrace,  and  h 
stronger  desire  to  save  himself  from  poverty.  “So  I made  h< 
my  wife,”  he  said.  “I  promised  to  love  and  cherish  her  £ 
the  time  my  heart  was  longing  for  another.” 


MARIAN  GREY 


227 


Marian  trembled  now,  as  she  lay  helpless  in  his  arms,  and, 
observing  it,  he  continued: 

“I  must  confess  the  whole,  and  tell  you  that  I loved,  or 
thought  I loved  Isabel  Huntington,  though  how  I could  have 
fancied  her  is  a mystery  to  me  now.  My  poor  Marian  was 
plain,  while  Isabel  was  beautiful,  and  naught  but  Alice  kept 
me  from  telling  her  my  love.  Alice  stayed  the  act — Alice 
sent  me  to  New  York  to  look  for  Marian — ” 

“And  did  you  never  hear  from  her?  Did  she  never  send 
you  a letter?”  Marian  asked,  and  he  replied: 

“Never ! If  she  had,  I should  have  known  where  to  find 
her.” 

Then,  as  briefly  as  possible,  for  he  knew  time  was  hasten- 
ing, he  told  of  his  fearful  sickness,  and  of  the  little  girl  who 
took  care  of  him — told,  too,  of  his  weary  search  for  her,  and 
of  the  many  dreary  nights  he  passed  in  thinking  of  her  and 
her  probable  fate. 

“Then  you  came,”  he  said,  “and  struggle  as  I would,  I 
could  not  mourn  for  Marian  Lindsey  as  I had  done  before.  I 
was  satisfied  to  have  you  here  until  the  conviction  burst  upon 
me,  that  far  greater  than  any  affection  I had  thought  I could 
feel  for  that  blue-eyed  girl,  and  tenfold  greater  than  any  love 
I had  felt  for  Isabel  Huntington,  was  my  love  for  you.  It 
has  worn  upon  me  terribly.  Look !”  And,  pushing  back  his 
thick,  brown  locks,  he  showed  her  where  the  hair  was  turning 
white  beneath.  “These  are  for  you,”  he  said.  “There  are  furrows 
upon  my  face — furrows  upon  my  heart — and  can  you  wonder 
that  I bade  you  go,  and  so  no  longer  tempt  me  to  sin?  And 
yet,  could  I longer  keep  you  with  me,  Marian?  Could  I hold 
you  to  my  bosom,  just  as  I hold  you  now,  and  know  I had  a 
right  so  to  do? — a right  to  call  you  mine — my  Marian — my 
wife?  Not  Heaven  itself,  I’m  sure,  has  greater  happiness  in 
store  for  those  who  merit  its  bliss  than  this  would  be  to  me ! 
Oh,  why  is  the  boon  denied  to  me?  Why  must  I suffer  on 
through  wretched,  dreary  years,  and  know  that  somewhere  in 
the  world  there  is  a Marian  Grey,  who  might  have  been  my 
wife ?” 

“Let  me  go  for  Alice,”  said  Marian,  struggling  to  release 
herself.  . “There  is  something  she  would  tell  you.” 

“Yes,  in  a moment,”  he  replied;  “but  promise  me  first  one 
thing.  The  news  may  come  to  me  that  I am  free,  and  if  it 
does,  and  you  are  still  unmarried,  will  you  then  be  my  wife? 
Promise  that  you  will,  and  the  remembrance  of  that  promise 
will  help  me  to  bear  a little  longer.” 

“I  do !”  said  Marian,  standing  up  before  him,  and  holding 


228 


MARIAN  GREY 


one  of  his  hands  in  hers.  “I  promise  you,  solemnly,  that  no 
other  man  shall  ever  call  me  wife  save  you.” 

There  were  tears  in  Frederick  eyes,  and  his  whole  frame 
quivered  with  emotion,  as,  catching  at  her  dress,  for  she  was 
moving  toward  the  door,  he  added: 

“And  you  will  wait  for  me,  darling — wait  for  me  twenty 
years,  if  it  needs  must  be?  You  will  never  be  old  to  me.  I 
shall  love  you  just  the  same  when  these  sunny  locks  are  gray,” 
and  he  passed  his  hands  caressingly  over  her  bright  hair. 
There  was  a world  of  love  and  tenderness  in  the  answering 
look  which  Marian  gave  to  him  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her 
to  pass  out,  and  wringing  his  hands  in  anguish,  he  cried  to 
himself:  “Oh,  how  can  I give  her  up — beautiful,  beautiful 

Marian  Grey!” 

Swift  as  a bird  Marian  flew  up  the  stairs  in  quest  of  Alice, 
who  was  to  tell  the  wretched  man  that  it  was  not  a sin  for  him 
to  love  the  beautiful  Marian  Grey. 

“Alice,  Alice!  Go  now— go  quick!”  she  exclaimed,  burst- 
ing into  the  room. 

“Go  whar— for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,”  said  Dinah,  who  had 
that  moment  come  up,  and  consequently  had  made  but  little 
progress  in  dressing  Alice.  “Go  whar?  Not  down  stars— 
'strue  as  yer  born  she’ll  cotch  her  death  o'  cold !” 

“Hurry— do!”  cried  Alice,  standing  first  on  one  foot  and; 
then  upon  the  other.  “I  must  tell  Frederic  something  before1 
he  goes  away.  There,  he's  going ! Oh,  Marian,  help ! she 
fairly  screamed,  as  she  heard  the  carriage  at  the  door,  and 
Frederic  in  the  hall  below. 

Marian  was  terribly  excited  and  in  her  attempts  to  assist, 
she  only  made  matters  worse  by  buttoning  the  wrong  button,; 
putting  both  stockings  on  the  same  foot,  pulling  the  shoe- 
lacing into  a hard  knot,  which  baffled  all  her  nervous  efforts,/ 
while  Dinah  worked  on  leisurely,  insisting  that  Alice  “wasn't 
gwine  down,  and  if  thar  was  anythin’  killin’  which  marstei 
'or'to  know,  Miss  Grey  could  tell  him  herself.” 

“Yes,  Marian,  go,”  said  Alice,  at  last  in  despair  as  she 
heard  Dud  bid  good-by  and  scarcely  conscious  of  what  she 
was  about,  Marian  ran  down  the  stairs,  just  as.  Phil  cracked 
his  whip  and  the  spirited  grays  bounded  off  with  a rapidity 
which  left  her  faint  call  of  “Stop,  Frederic,  stop !”  far  behind. 

“I  can  write  to  him,”  she  thought,  as  she  slowly  retraced 
her  steps  back  to  Alice,  who  was  bitterly  disappointed,  and 
who,  after  Dinah  was  gone,  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  re- 
fusing to  be  comforted.  # . 

“Three  weeks  was  forever,”  she  said,  and  she  suggested 


MARIAN  GREA 


229 


sending  Josh  after  the  traveler,  who,  in  a most  unenviable 
frame  of  mind,  was  riding  rapidly  toward  Frankfort. 

“No,  no,”  said  Marian.  “I  will  write  immediately,  so  he 
can  get  the  letter  as  soon  almost  as  he  reaches  New  Or- 
leans. It  won’t  be  three  weeks  before  he  returns,”  and  she 
strove  to  divert  the  child’s  mind  by  repeating  to  her  as  much 
as  she  thought  proper  of  her  exciting  interview  with  Frederic. 

But  Alice  could  not  be  comforted,  and  all  that  day  she 
lamented  over  the  mischance  which  had  taken  Frederic  away 
before  she  could  tell  him. 

“There’s  Uncle  Phil,”  she  said,  when  toward  night  she 
heard  the  carriage  drive  into  the  yard;  “and  hark,  hark!”  she 
exclaimed,  turning  her  quick  ear  in  the  direction  of  the  sound, 
and  rolling  her  bright  eyes  around  the  room;  “there’s  a step 
on  the  piazza  that  sounds  like  his— ’tis  him— ’tis  him ! He’s 
come  back  ! I knew  he  would !”  and  in  her  weakness  and  ex- 
citement the  little  girl  sank  exhausted  at  Marian’s  feet. 

Raising  her  up,  Marian  listened  breathlessly,  but  heard 
nothing  save  Phil,  talking  to  his  horses  as  he  drove  them  to 
the  stable. 

“He  has  not  come,”  she  said,  and  Alice  replied : “I  tell  you 
he  has.  There— there ; don’t  you  hear  ?”  and  Marian’s  heart 
gave  one  great  bound  as  she,  too,  heard  the  well-known  foot- 
step upon  the  threshold  and  Frederic  speaking  to  his  favorite 
Dud,  who  had  run  to  meet  “his  mars,”  asking  for  sugar  plums 
from  New  Orleans. 

There  had  been  a change  in  the  time  table,  and  Frederic  did 
not  reach  Frankfort  until  after  the  train  he  intended  to  take 
had  gone.  His  first  thought  was  to  remain  in  the  city,  and 
wait  for  the  next  train  from  Lexington,  as  he  had  some  busi- 
ness to  transact.  Accordingly  he  gave  his  parting  directions 
to  Phil,  who,  being  in  no  haste  to  return,  loitered  away  the 
morning  and  a portion  of  the  afternoon  before  he  turned  his 
horses  homeward.  As  he  was  riding  up  the  long  hill  which 
leads  from  Frankfort  into  the  country  beyond,  he  unexpect- 
edly met  his  master,  who  had  been  to  the  cemetery,  and  was 
just  returning  to  the  Capitol  Hotel. 

All  the  day  Frederic  had  thought  of  Marian  Grey,  and  with 
each  thought  it  had  seemed  to  him  more  and  more  that  he 
must  see  her  again,  if  only  to  hear  her  say  that  she  would  wait 
all  time  for  him,  and  when  he  came  upon  Phil,  whom  he  sup- 
posed was  long  ere  this  at  Redstone  Hall,  his  resolution  was 
taken,  and  instead  of  the  reproof  he  knew  he  merited,  Phil 
was  surprised  at  hearing  his  master  say,  as  he  made  a motion 
for  him  to  stop : 


230 


MARIAN  GREY 


“Phil,  I am  going  home." 

And  thus  it  was  that  he  returned  again  to  Redstone  Hall, 
where  his  coming  was  hailed  with  eager  joy  by  Marian  and 
Alice,  and  created  much  surprise  among  the  servants. 

“My  'pinion  he's  a little  out  of  his  head,"  was  all  the  satis- 
faction Phil  could  give,  as  he  drove  the  carriage  to  the  barn, 
while  Frederic,  half  repenting  of  his  rashness  in  returning, 
and  wondering  what  good  excuse  he  could  render,  went  to  his 
own  room — the  one  formerly  occupied  by  his  father — where 
he  sat  before  the  glowing  grate,  when  Alice  appeared 
covered  with  shawls  and  her  face  all  aglow  with  excitement. 

She  would  not  be  kept  back  another  moment,  lest  he 
should  go  off  again,  so  Marian  had  wrapped  her  up  and  sent 
her  on  her  mission.  Frederic  sat  with  his  face  turned  toward 
the  fire,  and  though  by  the  step  he  knew  who  it  was  that 
entered  at  the  door,  he  did  not  turn  his  head  or  evince  the 
least  knowledge  of  her  presence  until  she  stood  before  him, 
and  said,  inquiringly: 

“Frederic,  are  you  here?" 

“Yes,"  was  the  answer,  rather  curtly  spoken,  for  he  would 
rather  be  alone. 

“Frederic !"  and  the  bundle  of  shawls  trembled  violently. 
“I  have  come  to  tell  you  something  about  Marian." 

“I  don’t  wish  to  hear  it,"  was  his  reply;  and,  nothing 
daunted,  Alice  continued: 

“But  you  must  hear  me.  Her  name  isn't  Miss  Grey.  She 
is  a married  woman,  and  has  a living  husband;  and  you — " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  like  a tiger  Frederic 
started  up,  and  seizing  her  by  the  shoulders,  exclaimed:  “You 
dare  not  tell  me  that  again.  Marian  Grey  is  not  married. 
She  never  had  a husband,"  and  as  the  maddening  thought 
swept  over  him,  that  possibly  the  blind  girl  told  him  truly,  he 
staggered  against  the  mantel,  where  he  stood  panting  for 
breath  and  enduring  as  it  were  all  the  agonies  of  a lingering 
painful  death. 

“Sit  down,"  said  Alice,  and  like  a very  child,  he  obeyed, 
while  she  proceeded : “Miss  Grey  has  deceived  us  all  and  it  is 
strange,  too,  that  none  of  us  should  know  her — none  but 
Bruno.  Don’t  you  remember  how  he  wouldn't  bite  her,  just 
because  he  knew  her  when  we  didn't  ? Don't  you  mind  how 
I told  you  once  maybe  the  Marian  who  went  away  would  come 
back  to  us  some  day  so  beautiful  we  should  not  know  her? 
You  are  listening,  ain't  you?" 

“Yes,  yes,"  came  in  a quick,  sharp  gasp  from  the  armchair. 

“Well,  she  has  come  back ! She  called  herself  Marian  Grey, 


MARIAN  GREA 


231 


so  we  would  not  guess  right  off  who  she  was,  but  she  ain’t 
Marian  Grey.  She’s  the  other  one— she’s  my  Marian,  Fred- 
die, and  your  wife — ” . , , . , . 

As  Alice  was  speaking  Frederic  had  risen  to  his  teet. 
Drop  by  drop  every  particle  of  blood  receded  from  his  face, 
eaving  it  colorless  as  ashes.  There  was  a wild  unnatural  light 
fashing  from  his  eyes— his  hands  worked  nervously  together 
—his  hair  seemed  starting  from  its  roots,  and  with  his  head 
Dent  forward,  he  stood,  transfixed,  as  it  were,  by  the  dazzling 
ight  which  had  burst  upon  him.  Then  his  lips  parted  slowly 
md  more  like  a wailing  cry  than  a prayer  of  thanksgiving, 
;he  words : “I  thank  Thee,  oh,  my  God,”  issued  from  them, 

rhe  next  moment  the  air  near  Alice  was  set  in  rapid  motion— 
:here  was  a heavy  fall,  and  Frederic  Raymond  lay  upon  the 
;arpet  white  and  still  as  a block  of  marble. 

Like  lightning  Alice  flew  across  the  floor,  but  swift  as  were 
ier  movements,  another  was  there  before  her,  and  with  his 
lead  upon  her  lap  was  pressing  burning  kisses  upon  his  lips 
ind  dropping  showers  of  tears  upon  his  face.  Marian  had 
stood  without  the  door  listening  to  that  dialogue,  and  when  by 
che  fall  she  knew  that  it  was  ended,  she  came  at  once  and 
knelt  by  the  fainting  man,  who  ere  long  began  to  show  signs 
if  consciousness.  Alice  was  the  first  to  discover  this,  and 
when  sure  that  he  would  soon  come  back  to  life,  she  glided 
silently  from  the  room,  for  she  knew  full  well  that  she  would 
lot  be  needed  there. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXV 


“the  lost  one  has  returned” 

She  might  have  tarried  yet  a little  longer,  for  the  shock  to 
Frederic  had  been  so  sudden  and  so  great  that  though  his 
lips  moved  and  his  fingers  clutched  eagerly  at  the  soft  hand 
feeling  for  his  pulse,  he  did  not  seem  to  heed  aught  else,  until 
Marian  whispered  in  his  ear : 

“My  husband — may  I call  you  so?” 

Then,  indeed,  he  started  from  his  lethargy,  and,  struggling 
to  his  feet,  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  weeping  over  her  pas- 
sionately, and  murmuring  as  he  did  so: 

“My  wife — my  darling — my  wife ! Is  it  true  that  you  have 
come  to  me  again?  Are  you  my  Marian?” 

Daylight  was  fading  from  the  room,  for  the  winter  sun  had 
set  behind  the  western  hills,  and  leading  her  to  the  window, 
he  turned  her  face  to  the  light,  gazing  rapturously  upon  it,  and 
saying  to  her : 

“You  are  mine — all  mine!  God  bless  you,  Marian!” 

He  kissed  her  hands,  her  neck,  her  lips,  her  forehead,  her 
hair,  and  she  could  feel  his  hot  tears  falling  amid  the  shining 
curls  he  parted  so  lovingly  from  her  brow.  They  were  not 
hateful  to  him  now — these  silken  tresses — and  he  passed  his 
hand  caressingly  over  them,  whispering  all  the  while : 

“My  own  beautiful  Marian — my  bride — my  wife!” 

“Surely,  in  this  moment  of  bliss,  Marian  felt  repaid  for  all 
that  she  had  suffered,  and  when  at  last  as  thoughts  of  the 
dreadful  past  came  to  Frederic,  he  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and 
said:  “Can  you  forgive  me,  darling?”  she  turned  her  bright 

eyes  up  to  his,  and  by  the  expression  of  perfect  happiness  rest- 
ing there,  he  knew  she  had  forgotten  the  cold,  heartless  words 
he  spoke  to  her,  when  once,  at  that  very  hour,  and  in  that 
very  place,  he  asked  her  to  be  his.  That  scene  had  faded 
away,  leaving  no  cloud  between  them.  All  was  sunshine  and 
gladness,  and  with  her  fair  head  resting  on  his  bosoni — not 
timidly,  as  it  had  lain  there  in  the  morning,  but  trustingly, 
confidingly,  as  if  that  were  its  rightful  resting  place — they  sat 
together  until  the  rose-red  tinge  faded  from  the  western  sky, 
and  the  night  shadows  had  crept  into  the  room. 

More  than  once  Alice  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  door,  to  see  if  it 

Marian  Grey  233 


284 


MARIAN  GREY 


were  time  for  her  to  enter,  but  as  often  as  she  heard  the  lo\ 
murmur  of  their  voices,  she  went  noiselessly  back,  saying  t 
herself : “I  won’t  disturb  them  yet.” 

At  last  as  she  came  once  she  stumbled  accidentally,  and  thi 
awoke  Marian  from  the  sweetest  dream  which  ever  had  com 
to  her. 

“ ’Tis  Alice,”  she  said;  “she  surely  may  come  to  us  now, 
and  she  called  to  the  little  girl,  who  came  gladly,  and  climt 
ing  into  Frederic’s  lap,  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck  an 
laid  a cheek  against  his  own,  without  word  of  comment. 

“Blessed  Alice,  I owe  you  more  than  I can  repay,”  he  sai( 
and  Marian,  far  better  than  the  child,  appreciated  the  fu 
meaning  those  words  conveyed. 

But  for  the  helpless  blind  girl  this  hour  might  never  hav 
come  to  them,  and  the  strong  man  felt  it  so,  as  he  hugged  th 
little  creature  closer  to  him,  blessing  her  as  his  own  an; 
Marian’s  good  angel.  Observing  that  she  shivered  as  if  wit 
cold,  he  arose,  and  drawing  the  sofa  directly  before  the  fin 
resumed  his  seat  again,  with  Marian  between  himself  an 
Alice,  his  arm  around  her  neck  and  his  lips  almost  constant! 
meeting  hers.  He  could  not  remove  his  eyes  from  her,  sh 
seemed  to  him  so  beautiful,  with  the  firelight  falling  on  he 
sparkling  face  and  shining  on  her  hair.  That  hair — how  i 
puzzled  him,  and  winding  one  of  the  curls  about  his  fingers  h 
said,  half  laughingly,  half  reluctantly:  “Your  hair  was  nc 

always  this  color.” 

Then  the  blue  eyes  flashed  up  into  his  with  the  glance  h 
loved  so,  and  Marian  replied  by  telling  him  whence  came  th 
change,  and  reminding  him  that  she  was  the  same  young  gii 
of  whom  the  Yankee  Ben  had  spoken  when  he  visited  Ker 
tucky. 

“And  you  had  almost  died,  then,  for  me,  my  precious  one, 
said  Frederic,  kissing  the  sunny  locks. 

Just  at  this  point  old  Dinah  appeared  in  the  door,  whicl 
like  most  Kentucky  doors,  was  left  ajar.  She  saw  the  positio 
of  the  parties — saw  Frederic  kiss  Marian  Grey — saw  Alice 
look  of  satisfaction  as  he  did  so,  and  in  an  instant  all  the  ol 
lady’s  sense  of  propriety  was  aroused  to  a boiling  pitch. 

Since  Marian  had  revealed  herself  to  Alice,  the  little  gi: 
had  said  to  Dinah,  by  way  of  preparing  her  for  the  surpris 
when  it  should  come,  that  “there  was  some  doubt  concernin 
the  death  of  Marian — -that  Frederic  believed  she  had  bee 
with  him  in  New  York,  and  had  taken  means  to  find  her. 
This  story  was,  of  course,  repeated  among  the  servants,  son 
of  whom  credited  it,  while  others  did  not.  Among  the  latte 


MARIAN  GREY 


235 


^as  Dinah.  She  wouldn’t  believe  “she  had  done  all  her 
lournin’  for  nothin’,”  and  in  opposition  to  Hetty,  she  per- 
isted  in  saying  Marian  was  dead.  When,  however,  she  saw 
ier  master’s  familiarity  with  Miss.  Grey,  she  accepted  her 
'oung  mistress’  existence  as  a reality,  and  was  terribly  m- 
ensed  against  the  offending  Marian  Grey.  . 

“The  trollop !”  she  muttered.  “But  I’ll  bring  proof  agin 
ier,”  and  hurrying  back  to  the  kitchen,  she  told  the  aston- 
shed  blacks,  “how’t  marster  done  kissed  Miss  Grey  spang  on 
ier  har,  and  on  her  mouth,  and  hugged  her  into  the  bargain, 
vhen  he  didn’t  know  for  certain  that  t’other  one  was  dead; 
md  if  they  didn’t  believe  it,  they  could  go  and  see  for  them- 
, elves,  provided  they  went  mighty  still.” 

“Tole  ye  he  was  crazy,”  said  Uncle  Phil,  starting  to  see  the 
vonderful  sight,  and  followed  by  a troop  of  negroes,  all  of 
vhom  trod  on  tiptoe,  a precaution  wholly  unnecessary,  for 
Frederic  and  Marian  were  too  much  absorbed  in  each  other 
o heed  the  dusky  group  assembled  around  the  door,  their 
vhite  eyes  growing  larger  as  they  all  saw  distinctly  the  arm 
hrown  across  Marian’s  neck.  . 

“Listen  to  dat  ar,  will  you,”  whispered  Hetty,  as  Frederic 
;aid,  “Dear  Marian,”  while  old  Dinah  chimed  in,  “ ’Clar  for’t, 
t makes  my  blood  bile  and  he  not  a widower  nuther !” 

“Quit  dat!”  she  exclaimed  aloud,  as  the  master  showed 
;igns  of  repeating  the  kissing  offense;  and,  in  an  instant, 
Frederic  sprang  to  his  feet,  an  angry  flush  mounting  to  his 
face  when  he  saw  the  crowd  at  the  door. 

Then,  as  he  began  to  comprehend  its  meaning,  the  frown 
^ave  place  to  a good-humored  laugh,  and  taking  Marian’s 
land,  he  led  her  toward  the  assembled  blacks,  saying  to 
;hem : 

“Rejoice  with  me  that  the  lost  one  has  returned  to  us  again, 
for  this  is  Marian  Lindsey— my  wife  and  your  mistress — 
changed,  it  is  true,  but  the  same  Marian  who  went  from  us 
nore  than  five  years  ago.” 

“Wonder  if  he  ’spects  us  to  swaller  dat  ar?”  said  the  unbe- 
lieving Hetty. 

Dinah,  on  the  contrary,  had  not  the  shadow  of  a doubt,  and 
bough  she  had  long  since  abjured  a kneeling  position,  when 
saying  her  prayers,  it  took  her  so  long  to  rise  on  account  of 
ier  great  weight,  she  now  dropped  down  at  once,  kissing  the 
very  hem  of  Marian’s  dress,  and  exclaiming  through  her 
:ears : 

“Lord  bress  you,  Miss  Marian.  You’ve  mightily  altered,  to 
[be  sure,  but  ain’t  none  the  wus  for  that.  I’m  nothin’  but  a 


236 


MARIAN  GREY 


poor  old  nigger,  and  can’t  say  what’s  in  my  heart,  but  it’s  fu 
and  runnin’  over,  bless  you,  honey.” 

Dinah’s  example  was  contagious,  and  more  than  one  proi 
trated  themselves  before  their  mistress,  while  their  howlin 
cries  of  surprise  and  delight  were  almost  deafening.  Pai 
ticularly  was  Josh  delighted,  and  while  the  noise  went  on,  I 
took  occasion  to  “balance  your  partner,”  in  the  hall,  with 
young  yellow  girl,  who  thought  his  stammering  was  must 
and  his  ungainly  figure  the  most  graceful  that  could  be  cot 
ceived.  When  the  commotion  had  in  a measure  subsided,  an 
Hetty  had  gone  over  to  the  popular  side,  saying,  “she  kne’ 
from  the  first  that  Marian  was  somebody,”  Frederic  made 
few  brief  explanations  as  to  where  their  mistress  had  beei 
and  then  dismissed  them  to  their  several  duties,  for  he  pr< 
f erred  being  alone  again  with  his  wife  and  Alice. 

Supper  was  soon  announced,  but  little  was  eaten  by  anyon 
They  were  too  much  excited  for  that,  and  as  soon  as  the  me; 
was  over,  they  returned  to  Frederic’s  room,  where,  sittin 
again  between  her  husband  and  Alice,  Marian  told  them,  < 
far  as  possible,  everything  which  had  come  to  her  sine 
leaving  Redstone  Hall. 

“Can’t  I ever  know  what  made  you  go  away  ?”  Alice  askec 
and  Frederic  replied: 

“Yes,  birdie,  you  shall”;  and,  without  sparing  himself  i 
the  least,  Frederic  told  her  all. 

“Marian  is  an  heiress,  too !”  she  exclaimed.  “Will  marve 
never  cease?”  and  she  laid  her  head,  which  was  beginning  1 
grow  weary,  upon  Marian’s  lap,  saying:  “I  never  knew  ti 

now  one-half  how  good  you  are.  No  wonder  Frederic  thougl 
that  he  had  killed  you.  It  was  wicked  in  him,  very,”  and  tl 
brown  eyes  looked  sleepily  into  the  fire,  while  Marian  replies 

“But  it  is  all  forgotten  now.” 

It  did  seem  to  be,  and  in  the  long  conversation  which  laste 
till  almost  midnight,  there  was  many  a word  of  affection  e? 
changed,  many  a confession  made,  many  a forgiveness  askei 
and  when,  at  last  they  parted,  it  was  with  the  belief  that  eac 
was  all  the  world  to  the  other. 

Like  lightning  the  news  spread  through  the  neighborhoc 
that  Frederic  Raymond’s  governess  was  Frederic  Raymond 
wife;  and,  for  many  days  the  house  was  thronged  wit 
visitors,  most  of  whom  remembered  little  Marian  Lindsey,  an 
all  of  whom  offered  their  sincere  congratulations  to  the  beat 
tiful  Marian  Grey,  for  so  she  persisted  in  being  called,  unt 
the  night  of  the  twentieth  of  February,  when  they  were  t 
give  a bridal  party.  Then  she  would  answer  to  Mrs.  Ra) 


MARIAN  GREY 


237 


iond,  she  said,  but  not  before,  and  with  this  Frederic  was 
ain  to  be  satisfied.  Great  were  the  preparations  for  that 
arty  to  which  all  their  friends  were  to  be  bidden,  and  as  they 
rere  one  evening  making  out  the  list,  Marian  suggested 
sabel,  more  for  the  sake  of  seeing  what  Frederic  would  say 
lan  from  any  desire  to  have  her  present. 

“Isabel,”  he  repeated,  “never.  I cannot  so  soon  forget  her 
reachery,”  and  a frown  darkened  his  handsome  face,  but 
larian  Icissed  it  away  as  she  said: 

“You  surely  will  not  object  to  Ben,  the  best  and  truest 
riend  I ever  had.” 

“Certainly  not,”  answered  Frederic.  “I  owe  Ben  Burt  more 
lan  I can  ever  repay,  and  I mean  to  keep  him  with  us.  ^ He 
> just  the  man  I want  for  my  farm — your  farm,  I mean,  he 
dded,  smiling  knowingly  upon  her,  and  catching  in  his  the 
ttle  hand  raised  to  shut  his  mouth. 

But  Marian  had  her  revenge  by  refusing  to  let  him  kiss  her 
ntil  he  had  promised  never  to  allude  to  that  again. 

“I  gave  you  Redstone  Hall,”  she  said,  “that  night  I ran 
way,  and  I have  never  taken  it  back,  but  have  brought  you 
a instead  an  incumbrance  which  may  prove  a most  expensive 
ne.”  And  amid  such  pleasantries  as  these  Marian  wrote  the 
l0te  to  Ben,  and  then  went  back  to  her  preparations  for  the 
.arty,  which,  together  with  the  strange  discovery,  was  the 
heme  of  the  whole  country. 


- 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


BEN 

Ben  sat  among  his  boxes  and  barrels  cracking  hickory  nuts 
and  carrying  on  a one-sided  conversation  with  the  well-fed  cat 
and  nine  beautiful  kittens,  which  were  gamboling  over  the 
floor,  the  terror  of  rats  and  mice  and  the  pride  of  their  owner, 
who  found  his  heart  altogether  too  tender  to  destroy  any  one 
of  them  by  the  usual  means  of  drowning  or  decapitation.  So 
he  was  literally  killing  them  with  kindness,  and  with  his  ten 
cats  and  odd  ways  was  the  wonder  and  favorite  of  the  entire 

VllThe'night  was  dark  and  stormy,  and  fancying  he  had  dis- 
missed his  last  customer  he  had  settled  himself  before  the 
glowing  stove  with  nearly  half  a peck  of  nuts  at  his  side, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  a little  boy  came  in,  his  light  hair 
covered  with  snow,  which  had  also  settled  upon  other  portions 

of  his  person.  . . _ _ ri 

“Good-evenin’  Sandy,”  was  Ben’s  saluation.  “What  brung 
you  here  tonight?” 

' “Got  you  a letter,”  returned  Sandy,  who  was  the  chore  boy 
of  the  postmaster.  “It’s  been  a good  while  coming,  too,  for 
all  it  says  ‘in  haste/  ” and  passing  the  note  to  Ben,  he  caught 
up  five  or  six  of  the  kittens,  while  Ben,  tearing  open  the  en- 
velope and  snuffing  his  tallow  candle  with  his  fingers,  read: 

“Dear  Ben  : Frederic  knows  it  all,  and  we  are  so  happy. 
We  are  to  have  a great  party  on  the  twentieth,  and  you  must 
surely  come.  Don’t  fail  us,  that’s  a dear,  good  Ben,  but  come 
as  soon  as  you  get  this.  Then  I will  tell  you.  what  I can  t 
write  now,  for  Frederic  keeps  worrying  me  so  with  teasing  me 
to  kiss  him. 

“Yours  truly, 

“Marian. 

“P.  S— Alice  sends  her  love,  and  so  does  Frederic,  and  so 
do  I,  dear  Ben.” 

“I  ’most  wish  she’d  left  off  that  last,  and  that  about  his 
kissin’  her,”  said  Ben,  when,  after  the  boy  Sandy  departed 
he  was  alone.  “It  makes  me  feel  so  streaked  like.  Guy, 

Marian  Grey  239 


240 


MARIAN  GREY 


wouldn’t  I give  all  my  groceries,  and  the  ten  cats  into  the  ba 
gain,  to  be  in  Fred  Raymond’s  boots”;  and,  taking  up  tl 
kitten  he  called  “Marian  Grey,”  he  fondled  it  tenderly,  for  tl 
sake  of  her  whose  name  it  bore.  “I  shall  go  to  this  party,”  1 
continued,  as  his  mind  reverted  again  to  the  letter,  “thoug 
I’ll  be  as  much  out  of  place  as  a toad  in  a sugar  bowl ; but 
can  see  Marian,  and  that  little  blind  girl,  and  Josh.  Wa’n’t  1 
a case,  though?”  And,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  Ben  mei 
tally  made  the  necessary  arrangements  for  leaving. 

These  arrangements  were  next  day  carried  into  effect,  ar 
as  he  must  start  at  once  if  he  would  be  there  in  time  for  tl 
party,  he  took  the  night  express  for  Albany,  having  left  h 
feline  family  to  the  care  of  the  boy  Sandy.  The  second  nigl 
found  him  on  the  train  between  Buffalo  and  Cleveland,  ar 
as  the  weather  was  very  cold  and  the  seat  near  the  stove  ut 
occupied,  he  appropriated  it  to  himself,  and  was  just  f allin 
away  to  sleep,  when  a lady,  wrapped  in  velvet  and  furs,  with 
thickly  dotted  veil  over  her  face,  came  up  to  him,  and  sab 
rather  haughtily  : 

“Can  I have  this  seat,  sir?  I prefer  it  to  any  other.” 

4 “So  do  I,”  returned  Ben ; “but  bein’  you’re  a woman,  l\ 
give  it  up,  I guess.” 

And  he  sought  another,  of  which  there  were  plenty,  for 
was  the  last  car,  and  not  one-third  full.  i 

“Considerable  kind  o’  toppin’,”  was  his  mental  comment,  £ 
he  coiled  himself  in  his  shaggy  overcoat  for  a second  tim< 
sleeping  ere  long  so  soundly  that  nothing  disturbed  him,  unt 
at  last,  as  they  turned  a short  curve,  the  car  was  detache 
from  the  others,  and,  leaving  the  track,  was  precipitated  dow? 
an  embankment,  which,  fortunately,  was  not  very  steep,  s 
that  none  were  killed,  although  several  were  wounded,  ad 
among  them  the  lady  who  had  so  unceremoniously  taken  pof 
session  of  Ben’s  comfortable  seat. 

“Wall,  now,”  said  Ben,  crawling  out  of  a window,  and  hole 
ing  fast  to  his  hat,  which,  being  new,  was  his  special  care,  “j 
this  ain’t  a little  the  imperlitest  way  of  wakin’  a feller  out  o 
a sound  sleep,  to  pitch  him  head  over  heels  in  among  thes 
blackb’ry  bushes  and  stuns;  but  who  the  plague  is  that  a 
screechin’  so? — a woman’s  voice,  too!” 

And  with  all  his  gallantry  aroused,  Ben  went  to  the  rescue 
feeling  his  way  through  briers,  and  glass,  and  broken  piece 
of  the  car,  until  he  reached  the  human  form  struggling  be 
neath  the  ruins,  in  close  proximity  to  the  hissing  stove. 

“Easy,  now,  my  gal,”  he  said,  lifting  her  up.  “Haul  ye 
foot  out,  can’t  you?” 


MARIAN  GREY 


241 


“No,  no,  it’s  crushed”;  and  Ben's  knees  shook  beneath  him 

it  the  cry  of  pain.  . 

Relief  soon  came  from  other  sources,  and  as  this  lady  seemed 
lore  seriously  injured  than  either  of  the  other  passengers, 
ie  was  carried  carefully  to  a dwelling  near  by,  and  laid  upon 
bed,  before  Ben  had  a chance  to  see  her  features  dis- 

nctly.  . 

“Pretty  well  jammed,”  said  he,  examining  the  bonnet,  which 
ie  women  of  the  farmhouse  had  removed. 

Supposing  he  meant  herself,  the  lady  moaned: 

“Oh,  sir,  is  my  face  entirely  crushed  ?” 

“I  meant  your  bonnet,”  returned  Ben;  “though  if  I was  tc 
[ass  judgment  on  you,  I should  say  some  of  your  feathers 
ras  crumpled  a little;  but,  law,  beauty  ain't  but  skin  deep, 
t's  good,  honest  actions  that  make  folks  liked.” 

And,  taking  the  lamp,  he  bent  down  to  investigate,  discover- 
lg,  to  his  utter  amazement,  that  the  lady  was  none  other  than 
sabel  Huntington ! 

Some  weeks  before,  and  ere  Marian's  identity  with  Fred- 
ric's  wife  had  been  made  known,  Mrs.  Rivers  had  invited  her 
) visit  Kentucky,  and  as  there  was  now  nothing  in  Yonkers 
) interest  her,  she  had  accepted,  with  the  forlorn  hope  that  in 
pite  of  Frederic's  improbable  story  about  a living  wife,  he 
light  eventually  be  won  back  to  his  old  allegiance.  Accord- 
igly,  she  had  taken  the  same  train  and  car  with  Ben,  and  by 
ather  rudely  depriving  him  of  his  seat  near  the  stove,  had 
een  considerably  injured,  receiving  several  flesh  wounds,  be- 
ides  breaking  her  ankle.  For  this  last,  however,  she  did  not 
are;  that  would  get  well  again;  but  her  face — was  it  so  dis- 
gured  as  to  spoil  her  boasted  beauty?  This  was  her  con- 
tant  thought  as  she  lay  moaning  upon  her  pillows,  and  when 
or  a few  moments  she  was  alone  with  Ben,  whom  she  knew 
3 be  a Yankee  peddler,  and  who  considered  it  his  duty  to 
tay  with  her,  she  said  to  him : 

“Please,  Mr,  Butterworth,  tell  me  just  how  much  I am 
ruised,  and  v^iether  I shall  probably  be  a fright  the  rest  of 
ly  days.” 

“Wall,  now,”  returned  Ben,  taking  the  lamp  a second  time 
nd  coming  nearer  to  her,  “there's  no  knowin'  how  you 
/ill  look  hereafter,  but  the  fact  is  you  ain't  none  too  han'some 
tow,  with  your  face  swelled  as  big  as  two,  and  all  scratched 
ip  with  them  pesky  briers.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  interrupted  Isabel,  “but  the  swelling  will  go 
town  and  the  scratches  will  get  well.  That  isn’t  all.” 
“You're  right,”  said  Ben,  peering  curiously  at  her;  “that 


242 


MARIAN  GREY 


ain't  all.  You  know,  I s'pose,  that  six  of  your  front  teeth 
knocked  out.” 

“Yes,  but  false  ones  will  remedy  that.  I’ll  have  them  m 
a little  uneven  so  as  to  look  natural;  go  on!” 

“Wall,”  continued  Ben,  “you've  fixed  your  teeth,  but  w 
are  you  going  to  do  with  your  broken  nose  ?” 

“Oh !”  screamed  Isabel,  clasping  her  hand  to  that  org 
which,  from  its  classic  shape,  had  been  her  special  pr 
“Not  broken — is  it  broken,  true?” 

“Looks  mighty  like  it,”  answered  Ben,  “but  law!  docl 
can  do  anything.  They'll  tinker  it  up  so  it  will  answer 
oneeze  out  of  and  smell  with  as  good  as  ever  ; and  they’ll  ; 
up  that  ugly  gash,  too,  that  runs  like  a Virginny  fence  fi 
your  ear  up  onto  your  forehead  and  part  of  your  ch< 
Looks  as  though  there’d  been  a scar  of  some  kind  there 
fore,”  and  looking  closer,  Ben  saw  the  mark  which  the 
iron  had  made  that  night  when  the  proud  Isabel  had  gi- 
the  cruel  blow  to  the  blind  girl. 

This  she  had  heretofore  managed  to  conceal  by  coml 
over  it  her  hair,  but  nothing  could  hide  the  seam  she  ki 
would  always  be  upon  her  forehead  and  cheek. 

“Oh,  I wish  I could  die,”  she  groaned,  “if  I must  be 
mutilated.” 

“Pshaw ! no  you  don’t,”  returned  Ben,  now  acting  the  j 
of  a consoler.  “Your  eyes  ain’t  damaged,  nor  your  1 
neither,  only  singed  a little  with  the  stove.  There's  S( 
white  ones,  I see,  but  they  must  have  been  there  bef 
Never  used  Wood’s  brimstony  stuff,  did  you?  That’ll  kee 
from  turnin'.  I knew  a chap  once  with  a broke  nose  * 
looked  like  the  notch  in  the  White  Mountains,  and  nob 
thought  of  it,  he  was  so  good.  Maybe  yourn  ain’t  so  j 
Perhaps  it's  only  out  of  jint.  The  doctor’ll  know — here 
comes,”  and  Ben  stood  back  respectfully,  while  the  physfi 
examined  the  nature  and  extent  of  Isabel's  injuries. 

There  was  nothing  serious,  he  said;  nothing  from  which: 
would  not  recover.  She  was  only  stunned  and  bruised, 
sides  having  a broken  ankle.  The  cut  on  the  face  would  pi 
ably  leave  a scar,  and  the  nose  never  be  straight  again,  otl 
wise  she  would  ere  long  be  as  well  as  ever,  but  she  musl 
course  remain  where  she  was  for  two  or  three  weeks,  anc 
asked  if  she  had  friends  with  her. 

“No,”  she  said,  while  Ben  said:  “Yes,  I’m  her  friend, 
though  I want  to  go  on  the  wust  way,  I'll  stay  till  her  mol 
comes.  We’d  better  telegraph,  I guess.”  • 

This  brought  the  tears  from  the  heartless  Isabel,  for 


MARIAN  GREY 


243 


appreciated  Ben’s  kindness  in  not  deserting  her,  and  when 
a^ain  they  were  alone,  she  thanked  him  for  so  generously 
staying  with  her  when  she  heard  him  say  he  wished  to  go  on* 

“Were  you  going  to  Kentucky?”  she  asked,  and  Ben  re- 
plied: 'Yes,  goin’  to  see  how  Miss  Raymond  looks  at  the 

head  of  a family.  You’ve  heard,  I s’pose,  that  Marian  Grey 
was  Fred’s  runaway  wife,  and  that  they  are  happy  now  as  any 

two  clams.”  r . . , 

Unmindful  of  the  fierce  twinges  of  pain  it  gave  her  to 
move,  Isabel  started  up,  exclaiming:  "No,  no,  how  can  that 

be?” 

“Jest  as  easy,”  said  Ben,  proceeding  to  narrate  a tew  par- 
ticulars to  his  astonished  listener,  who,  when  he  had  finished, 
lay  back  again  upon  her  pillow,  weeping  bitterly. 

This,  then,  was  the  end  of  all  her  secret  hopes.  Frederic 
was  surely  lost  to  her;  the  beautiful  Marian  Grey  was  his 
wife,  and  what  was  worse  than  all,  her  treachery  was  un- 
doubtedly suspected,  and  what  must  they  think  of  her?  Poor 
Isabel,  she  was  in  a measure  suffering  for  her  sins,  and  she 
continued  to  weep  while  Ben  tried  in  vein  to  soothe  her,  talk 
ing  to  her  upon  the  subject  uppermost  in  his  mind,  namely, 
Marian’s  happiness  and  his  own  joy  that  it  had  all  come  right 
at  last.  Isabel  would  rather  have  heard  anything  else,  but 
when  she  saw  how  kind  Ben  was,  she  compelled  herself  to 
listen,  even  though  every  word  he  said  of  Marian  and  Fred- 
eric pierced  her  with  a keener  pain  that  even  her  bruises  pro- 
duced. 

“I  shan’t  be  in  time  for  the  doin’s  anyway,”  thought  Ben, 
when  Mrs.  Huntington  did  not  come  at  the  expected  time,  and 
as  he  fancied  it  his  duty  to  let  Marian  know  why  he  was  not 
there,  he  telegraphed  to  her:  “We’ve  had  a breakdown,  and 

Isabel  is  knocked  into  a cocked-up  hat.” 

This  telegram,  which  created  no  little  sensation  at  the  office, 
was  copied  verbatim,  and  sent  to  Frederic,  who  read  it,  wnile 
Marian,  in  her  chamber,  was  dressing  for  the  party.  He 
could  not  forbear  laughing  heartily,  it  sounded  so  much  like 
Ben,  but  he  wisely  determined  to  keep  it  from  his  wife  and 
Alice,  as  it  might  cause  them  unnecessary  anxiety.  He  ac- 
cordingly thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and  then,  when  it  was 
time,  went  up  for  Marian,  who,  in  her  bridal  dress  of  satin 
and  lace,  with  pearls  and  diamonds  woven  among  her  shining 
hair,  looked  wondrously  beautiful  to  him,  and  received  many 
words  of  commendation  from  the  guests,  who  soon  began  to 
appear,  and  who  felt  that  the  bride  of  Redstone  liall  well  be- 
came her  high  position.  Many  were  the  pleasant  jokes  passed 


244 


MARIAN  GREY 


at  Frederic’s  expense,  and  the  clergyman  who  had  officiated 
at  his  wedding  more  than  five  years  before,  laughingly  offeree 
to  repeat  the  ceremony.  But  Frederic  shook  his  head,  saying 
he  was  satisfied  if  Marian  was,  while  the  look  the  beautiful 
blushing  bride  gave  to  him  was  quite  as  expressive  of  hei 
answer  as  words  would  have  been.  And  so,  amid  smiles  anc 
congratulations,  the  song  and  the  dance  moved  on,  and  al 
went  merry  as  a marriage  bell,  until  at  last,  as  the  clock  tolc 
the  hour  of  midnight,  the  last  guest  had  departed,  and  Fred- 
eric, with  his  arm  around  Marian,  was  calling  her  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond, on  purpose  to  see  her  blush,  when  there  came  up  th< 
avenue  the  sound  of  rapid  wheels,  followed  by  a bound  on  the 
the  piazza,  and  the  next  moment  Ben  burst  into  the  room 
holding  up  both  hands,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Marian  in  hei 
bridal  robes. 

“My  goodness !”  he  exclaimed.  “Ain’t  she  pretty,  though' 
It’s  curis  how  clothes  will  fix  up  a woman.’’ 


THE  END 


/ 


